Melody of the Arcane - Book One: Lock and Key
by WilSquare
Summary: Locked within the cursed mind of "Grandfather" Ulpo are the means to decipher the secrets of Aetherius. When a moment of clarity reveals his true ability, he is spirited away by his faithful student and "granddaughter" Ysadette to rescue his imprisoned psyche and escape from both Cyrodiil and the Thalmor while the deadliest swordsman in the Fourth Era follows close behind. (AU)
1. Prologue - From Ash You Were Born

1

.~~~.

Elyna sat on the balcony of her manor, watching as the crisp morning sun peeked over the horizon and tall mushrooms dotting the landscape. In one hand, she had a fresh cup of Canis Root tea – brewed to absolute perfection according to her tastes – and in the other a copy of her favorite story, _The Cake and the Diamond._ The pair of slippers she was wearing was an old pair - made from snow fox fur that had a hole she could poke her big toe through - but they were softer than her other pair.

The chill of the morning was there, as it always was in the wintertime, making her bundle up under a thick blanket. It wasn't unusually cold – the Ascadian Isles rarely were – but Elyna didn't want to be sniffling for the next few days. Oh, it would nip at her hands and try to make her fingers ache, but with the rudimentary Destruction magic she'd learned over the years, the cold would have to work much harder than it usually did. With the piping hot cup of tea warming her on the inside, it didn't stand a chance.

Elyna read through the lines of her book, but despite knowing the ending already, she enjoyed it as much as she always did. Trickery, fictional or otherwise, was something she enjoyed. That was why she preferred Illusion magic above all other Schools – how she'd met her husband, coincidentally.

He was more than a match for Elyna when it came to every other School of magic, but he wasn't quite so sharp as to grasp the complexities of Illusion. It wasn't so simple as overwhelming another with raw power like Destruction, nor was it about precise application of vast stores of magicka like Restoration. It was about subtlety. It was about suggestion and, when wielded by someone who understood those concepts, it was stronger than most wanted to believe. Years prior, before she left the Mages Guild and began privately mentoring the students of her own choosing, Elyna taught many an eager novice the intricacies of Illusion.

To enchant her husband, however, Elyna was proud that she didn't need to use her magic. It was a stellar conversation starter, however. And the rest, she decided, didn't matter much.

Elyna sipped her Canis Root tea and set it back on the table, catching sight of the empty seat across from her. She sighed at the near-silence surrounding her. Yes, the lush greenery around the manor – the flora she'd cultivated herself from seeds and spores to towering trees and mushrooms – teemed with creatures making all sorts of sounds. It was, however, their unfettered symphony that made it cross over from a welcome song to irritating dissonance.

Elyna knew she was alone. She had been for six months now. Six months of uncomfortable silence at the dinner table broken only by the clanking of her eating utensils against her plate. Six months of waking up in an empty bed with her arm reached out as if instinctually looking for a body to wrap it around. Six months of waiting for him for him to cross the little creek in front of the manor. Six months of waiting for him to come up to the door with that cocky swagger of his on full display.

Nothing had come of all that waiting other than engulfing loneliness. When first they wed, Elyna was horrified to think of being plagued at all hours of the day by visitors, be they reputable or otherwise, seeking her husband for nearly any reason imaginable. That was why they had chosen to elope instead of throwing a party every god in their high places would marvel at. They didn't settle into Vivec and instead moved out to the countryside, letting everyone believe they'd disappeared without a trace. However, now that Elyna had neither visitors nor her husband, she was beginning to regret being so removed.

He was never one to shirk the burden that had been placed on him, however. That was why he wasn't there with her now – nose buried in one of those lengthy tomes about topics much too dry for her tastes. However, Elyna didn't regret marrying him, not even a little. What she regretted was how long she had spent hoping he would abandon his old life and its gallantry for a less extravagant one with her.

She supposed she regretted all of her failed attempts to convince him that it was time to grow their little family of two into three, as well.

Elyna stifled a humorless laugh. At least he wrote to her while he was gone. A courier would arrive every other Morndas, two hours before midday, with a letter in hand addressed to her. The letters were always long enough that she didn't care to read it in one sitting and instead read it in several. He would tell her about how his quests were going, likely leaving out the harrowing bits so she wouldn't have to worry more than she already did. Elyna would write back, usually running out of things to say because of her comparatively hum-drum life and settle for the truth that she hoped would finally get through that dense skull of his;

 _"I miss you."_

Elyna stood up, the blanket still wrapped around her shoulders, and walked to the edge of the balcony, leaving her book on the table. Through the mass of tree barks and mushrooms surrounding her manor, she could see Vivec towering in the distance. The cantons and the streets of water that surrounded them were always the first things anyone saw when they traveled to the city. When she was young, it was what brought her there. Even then, it was a busy place – always filled with out-of-Province visitors and, at the time, pilgrims.

She folded her arms on the railing and leaned forward. The last thing most would notice, despite being the most unusual, was the Ministry of Truth. The boulder had been floating in the sky for as long as she could remember, almost like it were a moon to the biggest city Elyna had ever seen, yet it always was one of the oddest sights she knew of. Never had she set foot on it – considering it was a prison for Temple heretics – but she always imagined what it would be like to see the city from so high.

Although, maybe it was for the best that she didn't. Heights made her queasy. But it indeed was an odd thing, always hanging over the city like it wanted to land in the streets – so close she imagined she could touch it from the apex of the Temple.

Elyna pushed off the railing and strolled across the balcony as a chilly wind blew over. She left her book and teacup on the table where they were as she passed, heading back inside.

Elyna shut the door behind herself. Quiet. Not even the sound of the wind rustling the leaves could reach her inside. Elyna fell back onto her bed and curled up, her eyes looking at the little portrait on the nightstand.

The Dunmer depicted in it looked back at her. His hair was coal black and properly smoothed against his head. The ashen gray of his skin and jagged features were barely disturbed by the brash smile on his face – the one she fell in love with.

Elyna reached out and took the portrait in her hands and held it over herself. She missed seeing that face moving, speaking, always no more than an arm's reach away. She missed seeing it beside her as she fell asleep at night and seeing it first thing in the morning when she woke up.

Elyna held the painting, feeling as if her chest had been hollowed out despite his constant smile beaming down at her.

She sighed and set the portrait back down on the nightstand. _He'll come home_ , Elyna thought as she sat on the edge of her bed. _You only need to trust him._ She traced her thumb over his face and smiled back. Not that he could see it. _He always comes home._

Elyna pushed off the bed and crossed the room. Out on the balcony, she collected her teacup and held it in both hands before taking a sip. The alchemy garden didn't need tending, and none of her students would be coming for their lessons until the evening. Maybe, instead of wasting the day feeling sorry for herself, she'd go to Vivec and spend it taking in the sights.

She looked out towards the city and tried her best to smile, expecting to be met with the same beautiful view she had known for many years.

Something was different.

The sky above Vivec was clear.

Elyna gasped. The teacup slipped from her hands and smashed on the floor.

A crash to move the world knocked her down from the balcony. Her vision turned black when she hit the ground below. The bones in her body were throbbing when she came to – her legs refusing to move. Elyna propped herself up on her elbows. A scream caught itself between the back of her throat and her lips.

A wall of dust and fire swallowed her whole.

.~~~.

He tugged at the cloth covering his face as he ascended the ash-covered cliffside, sucking down a shallow breath. His legs were burning and his back was aching. He hadn't stopped climbing for what felt like days, long past the point of exhaustion, but he had to reach the top. There had to be something left out there; a tower, a building, a settlement, a single farmhouse nestled in the hillside. It couldn't all be gone. A decent vantage point – that was what he needed. It would show him the way - _his_ way back home.

When he reached the top of the mountain and looked across the devastation, he felt that inkling of hope he'd been clinging to since he returned be mercilessly slaughtered. The rolling hills of green grass and rippling blue waters had been choked underneath a blanket of charred soot so tall that the treetops in the lowlands had been swallowed up. To his right, far in the distance, a boiling crater occupied the space where the cantons of Vivec City once stood tall and proud – now godless and lifeless. On his left, a plume of fire and smoke belched ash into the air. It rained down on him and the deadlands.

It was silent. There wasn't a sound to be heard except for the distant booming of the cracked mountain and his own stunted breathing. He wanted to hear a voice, a cry from an animal – even if it was hurt – or the trickle of a stream running down the mountainside and yet not a sound reached his ears.

The home he left was gone. In its place was the largest collective tomb he had ever seen.

He fell to his knees and buried his face in his hands, screaming his voice hoarse and begging for death to come to him.

Only the mute ash answered his call.

Nothing more remained.


	2. Ysadette, the Lady-In-Flames

2

.~~~.

Ysadette jolted awake when the cart hit a sharp dip in the earthen path. In the few moments that she'd let her eyes drift closed, an unwanted slumber must've crept in. She worked her neck from side to side to relieve the soreness in it, noting that she was still in the same place she had been before dozing off. The rickety, wooden cart – drawn by that same damned mule that refused to stop braying – was still in one piece and still on the Black Road.

At least, Ysa assumed it was. The roads in the Colovian Highlands were surrounded by dense forests. The unremarkable landscape made it easy to lose one's sense of direction.

She blinked – eyes glossy and dry – and stole glances at the other passengers of the cart.

A family of Nords – a man, his wife, and their only son – on their way out of Cyrodiil and into Skyrim to the North filled the other spots. The mother, Hari, held her son close with every stir of the underbrush and muttered a prayer of safety to Kynareth for good measure. Sarund, the father, gripped the worn handle of his ax in one hand and held the reins in the other. Sweat seemed to always be dripping from his brow. At each instance of the mule making a sound besides the clop of its hooves meeting the ground, he jerked his weapon free. Wilhelm, their son, fought to uncover his face and glimpse at Ysadette.

She'd noticed him keeping a close eye on her since she'd approached their camp a few mornings before. Ysa could tell that it was a distraction his parents welcomed with open arms.

Young as he was, even he wasn't fooled by her guise. He knew that she wasn't a simple peasant traveler, nor a priestess on a pilgrimage no matter how many times she insisted that were the case. His questions, lacking entirely in subtlety and grace, made that crystal clear.

Still, Ysa didn't dare tell a single one of them the truth. She offered them innocent smiles, warm as she could muster, in hopes that it would throw them off her trail. Yet it wasn't their pointed doubts that occupied her mind. It was her own.

Would they abandon her on the roadside if they knew the truth? If that were the outcome, she wouldn't blame them. However, Ysa couldn't take that chance, which meant her façade needed to be maintained even if she felt like a fool trying to convince the court the sky was green.

And yet, it appeared at times the odds of her being left in the forest were still higher than she preferred. The previous night, she'd caught a glimpse of the little food they had left when Hari tore a piece of bread from the half-gone loaf and sneaked it to her.

When the food was gone, they'd become irritable. They'd start cutting away anything that threatened their safety. The first of those things would be her, even if she had knitted Sarund's wounds with her magic.

A twist of anxiety in her chest made her tighten her arm around the cloak-wrapped elf beside her. The spindly old Dunmer was another complicated matter she hadn't the faintest idea of how to begin explaining. Hari wouldn't let Wilhelm look at him for more than a second before quietly scolding him for being rude, but much like people back home in Anvil, Ysa knew that all he needed to form an opinion were a few sparse viewings. The Dunmer's speech patterns, his movements, and the vacant expression drawn across his face – kind as it appeared – all pushed the boy back into his mother's arms paler than he was before.

Ysa could relate to that fear. Although, hers wasn't born from the unknown.

Odd was the only descriptor that fit the elf. The common phrase she preferred was taboo on the best of days and cursed on the worst. Most of his past was shrouded in mystery, but she knew he was ancient. He had the wrinkles to show for it even if most of his "grand battles" were dubious claims. Often, he would begin telling of his journeys only to forget what he was saying mid-sentence and return his attention to his coveted treasure.

It was a fork. Not a magical fork. Not a spoon, either. He hated spoons. It was simply a wonderfully shiny fork. The only things that glittered more than it were his two eyes when he gazed at it, Ysa noted on several occasions.

His name was Ulpo and, as far as anyone else needed to know, he was her grandfather.

"So," Hari said, looking at her Ysa with a raised eyebrow, "Are you sure the both of you aren't hungry? I don't know how long you've been in these woods alone, but we do have a bit more of that bread. I'd be willing to – "

"Are you mad, woman?" Sarund bellowed, apparently forgetting that being quiet was important since they were in dangerous territory. "I toiled a week for that bread, and you'd just give it away to two strangers."

Hari pursed her lips. "No, I'm not mad," she said. "I only want to keep our new friends from starving before we reach Chorrol. It'll be another day before we reach the gates, at least."

Sarund huffed and fought with the reins. "All the more reason to save it," he said.

"Can't we stop and hunt?" Hari asked.

"Not if you want to reach town before sundown tomorrow," Sarund said.

Hari glared at his back. "She's already healed that wound you received last Morndas," she said. "Why won't you give her something in return?"

Sarund grumbled again. "Because I care more for my wife and son than I do about some Grey-Skin and Half-Breed," he said. "Damned elves have already taken our homes. Now you want to starve us for them as well?"

"Husband!" Hari snapped.

Ysadette set her hand on Hari's lap and shook her head. "Please, don't argue," she said. "It's fair that he puts the needs of his own family above those of a few strangers. I understand."

Hari's eyes narrowed. "Are you sure?" she asked.

Ysa nodded, then turned to Sarund. "Yes, but a bit of advice," she said. "I suggest being more respectful to my grandfather and me from now on. If not, then…" she trailed off.

Sarund whipped his head around. "Then what, girl?"

Ysa raised her hand. Embers leaped between her fingertips, crackling like a freshly lit campfire. "Your pants are made of cheap cloth," she said. "These are flames. You can put the rest together."

Hair guffawed loudly then slipped her hand over her mouth to cover her grin.

Sarund spat a few cursed under his breath and whipped the reins to hasten the mule's pace again.

"D'oh, my!" Ulpo exclaimed as if someone had pinched him. "I remember now, girl!"

Ysa sighed. "What is it, Grandfather?"

"Do be a dear and feed the pigs today," Ulpo said. "They'll get awfully thin if we don't. Then we'll get to your lessons!"

"We don't have pigs, Grandfather," Ysa said.

Ulpo's head swiveled back and forth. "Where'd they get off to?" he asked. "D'oh, maybe we should go looking?"

"We will," Ysa said. "First, we need to get to town."

"Gnisis?" Ulpo asked. "I do love that place. Such a nice little village." He swished his fork to-and-fro before dropping it into the floor of the cart.

"By the Nine!" Hari said. "Gnisis! Now that's a name you don't hear anymore. Is your grandfather from Vvardenfell?"

Ysa picked up the fork and gave it back to Ulpo. "It was long before my time, but yes," she said. "He was there before Red Mountain's eruption. Long before, or so I've understood."

"That was almost two hundred years ago!" Hari said.

Ysa nodded. "Indeed, it was."

Ulpo pulled his hood down and ran a hand over his head. "Phooey," he said. "I'm but a young lad!"

Ysa replaced his hood, despite his protesting about it. "It may seem old to us, but he's far from the oldest Dunmer out there, I'm sure," she said. "Their lifespan is much longer than humans. Some even live for a millennium. Although, I suspect necromancy is involved in ages closer to three centuries."

Hari laughed. "Makes my old bones feel rather youthful with numbers like that!" She grinned, amused at her own joking.

Wilhelm freed himself from her arms. "Father?" he squeaked. "Can I ride on the front with you for a while?"

"I would allow you, son, but it's not up to me," Sarund said. "Your mother'd have my hide if so much as a scratch was found on you. And that's a battle not even I'd – "

Sarund stopped cold. His back stiffened, and he craned his neck forward as two figures appeared from behind the slope ahead.

Hari pulled Wilhelm into her arms again. "What is it?" she asked. "Bandits?"

Sarund shook his head. "No, dear," he said, his voice lacking the power it once had. "It's not bandits."

Ysadette twisted and leaned back to get a better view. She squinted at the figures, piecing together the details of the trio. One wearing deep blue robes was flanked by two more in golden armor shining like starlight. Her anxiety was quickly replaced with dread.

"Thalmor," Hair gasped as they became clear to her as well. "Quickly, move us off the road. Maybe they haven't noticed us yet."

"And how would that look?" Sarund asked. "A caravan of Nords avoiding a Justiciar? You know they can smell Talos worship from a Province away." He gripped the reins so tight that his dry knuckles turned white. "Pray that they let us pass in peace. Pray for everything that you're worth."

"But why are they out here?" Hari asked. The Justiciar in the middle raised his head, seemingly taking notice of them at last. "They couldn't be looking for that woman, could they? The Lady-In-Flames and the Squat Demon that follows her?"

Sarund shook his head. "She's just a myth," he said. "But if she isn't, now would be the time for them both to come screaming out of the woods to save us."

Ysadette clenched her fists. She could taste that odd flavor that always accompanied Thalmor agents. The magicka in the air bent and warped around the Dominion's mages, but not willingly. She'd ask herself why they were patrolling the Black Road as well if she didn't already know the answer.

The reason sat next to her, blissful of the situation. Ysa wrapped her arm around Ulpo and held him tight as he seemed unfazed by the tension building around him.

They were still being chased after all this time. She figured she shouldn't be surprised. The Dominion always was relentless when they sensed either a threat or an opportunity to increase their power. Or if anyone dared to resist them, no matter the degree.

Ysadette and her "grandfather" were guilty of all of those things. After her last encounter, she'd hoped she wouldn't have to face them again. She'd hoped that they would've lost her trail for good.

How could she have known what Ulpo had hidden away within? How could she have known he'd be the reason she would be forced to uproot her life and become a fugitive?

Would she have done things differently?

.~~~.

The waves of the Abecean Sea lapped on the shores of the Gold Coast. Busy sailors, both reputable and less than so, loaded and unloaded cargo for eager dockside merchants on Anvil's boardwalk. Shanties filled the air in competition with the inland bound breeze – sticky with salty brine from the horizon.

Ysadette liked the sea. She was deeply fascinated with it, at least. Growing up in the northern parts of Rivenspire in a small village that hadn't been labeled on a map hardly gave an inquisitive girl time to entertain the notion of visiting the sea. It didn't do much for encouraging inspiration to find it, either.

No, it was canyons, dirt, and depressing badlands as far as the eye could see. For Ysa that in itself wasn't far without a spell of her own making. The Alteration School of magic did have its uses, as she found out. Hardly comparable to Restoration, but she was fond of both equally.

It was the first day of First Seed. Winter's chill was, at last, taking its leave and allowing the delicate months of comfortable weather take its place before the blistering heat of summer arrived. A stack of books she was yet to finish sat on her bedside table – begging that she crack them wide open and take in their words – and yet Ysa had found the warmth outside too inviting to ignore. After watching the sunrise from her window, she decided she'd rather take a stroll along the docks to take in the beauty she'd been so enamored with from the day she arrived in Anvil almost a decade prior.

Her heart fluttered in her chest as she looked to the other end of the docks where a small store was perched. There was another reason that she couldn't coop herself up at home, too. No, the day was much too beautiful to spend it alone. It demanded that she share it with someone.

As Ysadette passed a trio of bobbing ships, her gradual slipping into a trance was broken by a pair of shouting voices. She looked to the sound and saw a duo of sailors marching to the boarding plank.

"To Oblivion with him!" the stumpy one shouted at the other, leaner man. "All 'e's done is eat our store o' fish and light the sails on fire! Twice!"

The lean sailor crossed his arms. "That any way to treat someone that was already adrift in the sea?" he said. "He would've done down to the drink if we 'adn't come alone when we did! I say we layover here a few days and see if someone comes lookin' for 'im!"

"Aye, sure!" the stumpy sailor said. "Because so many people lose their mates seven leagues offshore! Probably an omen of some sort. I'll have none of it."

"Or a victim of a shipwreck," lean-man said, "That'd explain how skinny 'e is."

"That's just elves, moron," Stumpy fired back. "All of 'em are paper thin. Now, enough talking about this. I'm the captain, so what I say goes. And I say he's goin' to the docks."

Ysadette watched as the captain carried a small figure draped over his shoulder like a sack of flour down the plank. Whoever it was didn't put up a fight. Instead, they hung limply from the captain's shoulders, twiddling their fingers.

"D'oh, you're rather strong!" the figure exclaimed, raising his head. Ysa could see his face. Elven. Specifically Dunmeri. "Perhaps you'd like to join me for a Game! I require your assistance, d'oh yes!"

The captain groaned and dropped the Dunmer on a crate. "Enough with your damned games!" he said. "You've been prattling on about it since we fished you out of the sea and still haven't explained what you're talkin' about."

"D'oh! You know!" he said. "The Game!"

The threw his head back and groaned again. "Look, you old something or other," he said, "We're going to leave you 'ere for a while. Now, if you behave yourself, someone might pick you up and take you home with them. Give you a meal and a place to stay. Understand?"

The elf nodded emphatically. "Of course!" he said, chipper as if it were the single greatest day of his entire life. "Eh, but, uh, what do I need to do?"

The captain had already turned his back and started back up the plank. "Just sit there and don't steal or burn anything!"

The elf's face hardened. He sat on the crate, hands folded in his lap and back straight, dignified as a confused old mer left alone on the docks of a harbor town could be. His eyes traced every movement – sometimes splitting in two directions to keep up with the hustle and bustle – but he never spoke to anyone who came close enough. Nobody spoke to him, either. They were much too occupied with their own day-to-day schedules to pay attention to someone waiting patiently for no one.

Ysadette didn't know what to make of it. It wasn't any of her business, really. She, like everyone else, had her own matters to attend to. The very reason she was on the boardwalk, for instance, was waiting for her just a short walk away. It, in no way, involved helping a lost elf find a place to stay. And she had her duties as a healer at the Chapel of Dibella to worry about as well. That stack of unread books wasn't going to read itself, either.

She started once more but found her steps were bogged down by a mixture of curiosity and pity. If he really had nowhere to go, then what would become of him?

Ysa didn't even want to look at him. Something about him fought desperately for her attention – almost as if his very presence was a cry for help.

Before Ysa had any more time to make excuses, she found herself approaching him. "Hello?" she said gently so she wouldn't spook him. When he didn't respond, she leaned over to look at him at eye-level.

His eyes focused on hers, and his cheeks were pushed up by an impossibly warm and wide grin. "Oh, my. Hello there," he said. "How are you, young lady?"

Ysa found his smile oddly infectious. "I'm well," she said. "Er, pardon me for asking, but are you all alone?"

"I…," he said, trailing off. For a moment, there was a change in his demeanor. His crimson eyes flickered as if he'd seen something Ysadette hadn't. "Yes. I believe I am," he continued, his voice hardly a whisper. "Alone."

Ysa kneeled in front of him. Seeing him, old as he was and being alone, tugged at her heart. A sorrowful sight if she ever knew one. "What's your name?" she asked.

"Er..." he said, scrunching up his nose and crossing his arms in a desperate search for the answer. "Oh! Ulpo!"

"Ulpo?" Ysa said.

His face loosened. "Yes?"

"Is that your name?" she asked.

He nodded.

Ysa smiled. "Hello, then, Ulpo," she said. Ysa took his hand and pulled him to his feet. "My name is Ysadette."

"Ah," Ulpo said. "You have a pretty name." He looked back and forth before bringing one hand up to shield his mouth as if he were about to ask for a sacred piece of information. "By chance, are you an Orc?"

Ysa tried not to sigh too loudly. So much for a good start. "No, not an Orc," she said. "Breton. Half, to be exact. Mother said that my father was an Altmer. I simply didn't take after him as much as I did her. But we can talk about that later. Do you have anywhere to go?"

Ulpo scrunched up his face again, his features being lost in a sea of wrinkles. "I don't know. I took a swim and found myself adrift until those kind gentlemen brought me onto their ship. Such fine lads, they are. D'oh, yes."

Ysa tilted her head in thought. Maybe it was a shipwreck. Perhaps a refugee from Morrowind. Maybe he could be a member of one of the Great Houses, she pondered. But if he is, why is he so…

In the time she'd distracted herself, Ulpo had decided to walk away.

"Wait a moment!" Ysa called out.

Ulpo continued to walk along the boardwalk, seemingly unaware that he wasn't the only person there.

Ysa jogged up behind him. "Where are you going?" she asked.

"Home," Ulpo said. "Yours. Which direction is it?"

Ysa scratched her forehead. "I don't have a place for you to stay, but I can try to prepare something," she said. "Until we find someone that knows you, that is." Ysa took his bony hand in hers to lead him out of the way of the busy sailors and merchants.

Ulpo's eyes focused intently on her hands and traced up her arm. "Are these burns?" he asked.

"Er, yes," Ysa said. "From practicing Destruction magic. They're several months old, now, though. You won't hurt me."

Ulpo gazed even more intently at the marks on her skin. His hand trembling, he traced his bony thumb over the back of her hand. "I didn't cause this, did I?"

"Of course not," Ysa said. "My fault entirely."

Ulpo seemed relieved at that. "I'm rather skilled in the School," he said. "Perhaps I could tutor you?"

Ysadette walked him to the gates of the city, past the wary eyes of the guards standing watch. "We can worry about that later," she said. "For now, let's go to my home. It's not very large, but I can make enough room for the time being. I'll only need to move a bit of furniture around."

"Oh, thank you, girl!" he said, his grin widening again. "Thank you very much!"

Ysa stopped at the gates and looked out to the other end of the boardwalk. Her heart fluttered like it had taken flight, reminding her of what she'd come for in the first place. Then, she looked back at Ulpo and sighed.

Another time, perhaps.

.~~~.

The Thalmor agents greedily dug through the family's belongings. They tossed their personal treasures to the muddy roadside with little care for fragility. Pocketing any of the contents of their bags didn't seem to be a priority as most were only valuable in a sentimental way.

Ysa watched as the family stared in horror. Their family heirlooms – irreplaceable in most cases – were dirtied and broken by the Thalmor in their search.

Hari leaned over to Sarund and pulled Wilhelm close. "They won't find anything, will they?" she whispered as they picked up the boy's little knapsack and opened it.

Sarund squeezed her hand. "Don't you worry, Hari," he said. "I'll make sure you and Wilhelm aren't caught up in this."

Hari looked at him for a moment, her expression puzzled. Then, all the color in her face drained.

Ysa pushed Ulpo behind her and shushed him. She hid her glowing hands behind her cloak. They hadn't been recognized yet, but it would only be a matter of time before they were finished searching the Nord's packs.

Then, it would be up to chance and the familiarity of their faces. She pleaded to the Divines that the Thalmor wouldn't know them and that maybe they hadn't become as infamous as she feared, but a mage should always be prepared. That was what Ulpo taught her.

One of the golden-armored agents saluted stiffly to the robed one. "I've finished searching these bags, sir!" he said.

The other mimicked his stance. "As have I!" he said.

The robed Justiciar nodded. "Good," he said. "I'll be finished here in a moment, and then we can be on our way." As he twirled around, his sharp face was unimpressed. He scowled as he held Wilhelm's knapsack in his hands before dumping it onto the ground.

A few trinkets, a toy, and an amulet fell out.

Ysa almost cursed out loud. Why? Out of all the travelers in Cyrodiil did she decide to travel with them?

The Justiciar grinned wide. "My, my, my," he said, crouching down to retrieve the amulet. "What have we here?"

Sarund placed his hand on his ax and gave Ysa a stone-hard look.

She was on the verge of asking if he was serious. He had to know it was an awful idea.

Hari turned away and shut her eyes as tears began to spill over and race down her cheeks.

The Justiciar dropped the amulet to the ground. "An amulet of that false god?" he said, driving it into the mud with his foot. "You are aware that worship of Talos was forbidden by the White-Gold Concordat, aren't you?" He reared to full height. Lightning sparks leaped between his fingertips. "What am I saying? Heretics always know what they do is morally abhorrent. So answer me this; do you also know the penalty for being found guilty of Talos worship?"

The two armored agents unsheathed their blades.

Silence from all sides ensued.

The Justiciar's zealous eyes spoke hard condemnation.

Ysa launched a glowing orb at his chest. The Justiciar rolled backward down the hill. Sarund raised his ax above his head and let out a war-cry. Hari screamed and shielded Wilhelm.

The Justiciar scrambled to his knees. A bolt of lightning leaped from his fingertips. Ysa threw up a ward spell. The lightning crashed on it and showered the area with sparks.

Sarund rammed into one of the agents. He chopped at his leg just above the knee, rending the golden armor and causing the elf wearing it to howl in pain. He dropped to the ground.

The Justiciar turned his attention from Ysa and fired a bolt of lightning at Sarund. He dropped to the ground and shivered as electricity hopped from the bottom of his feet and into the dirt.

"Sarund!" Hari screamed.

The unharmed agent dragged his blade over Sarund's throat for good measure.

Ysa readied her magic. The three of them turned on her at once. She crossed her arms and advanced on them – her stance powerful behind the magical wall. Another stream of electricity crashed into the ward. One agent rushed at her. The tip of his blade swiped at her chest.

It scraped deep enough to draw blood. Ysa case a healing spell and knit it before it could stain her shirt.

The armored agent kicked her in the stomach. Ysa tumbled down the hill and into the woods.

The hard bark of a tree stopped her rolling a few moments later. She groaned and rolled over onto her back, dizzy. She put one hand on her throbbing head and raised to her feet. A crack of thunder followed.

Dread filled Ysadette's heart as she tried to keep herself from worrying about who had been struck. She gritted her teeth at her aching body and began to climb back up the hill. A blood-curdling scream pierced her ears when she was about halfway to the top. That voice she knew. "Wilhelm," she breathed. Ysa drove her fingers into the dirt and clawed at the ground to speed her ascent.

Adults were one thing, but no, not the child. Her cheeks grew hot with anger.

Ysa emerged from the woods – frost readied in one hand and the other glowing red with a new spell she'd learned from Ulpo a few days before. It was time to put her lessons to the test.

She slammed her red-glowing hand onto the Justiciar's back. His magicka drained into her own. With the other, she reached out for his neck and brought ice as cold as the grave to him. The Justiciar moved his spark-covered hand towards her. She readied another of the spells Ulpo taught her. When the bolt of lightning fired, she absorbed it and sent it back at him twofold.

The one that had kicked her into the woods rushed at her with his blade held straight out. She sprinted at him as well, focusing part of her magicka into a spell to harden her skin into stone and the rest into a burst of fire building in her hand. He let out a shout and thrust his blade forward.

It barely scraped her. Ysa jabbed her fingers underneath his helmet. She blocked her own face with her arm. Flames exploded out of her hand and sent him away.

The last one on the ground that Sarund had wounded pointed his sword at her as she turned on him as well. "Stay back!" he shouted, clutching his destroyed knee.

Ysa brought the embers in her hands to life again, but she didn't have any time to make a show of it. Her legs had become weak, and breathing wasn't as easy as it once was. She was running out of magicka and fast. Ysa did her best to mask it, but he must've noticed it as his expression changed moments before she was in range. He hauled himself to his feet.

But Ysa wasn't don't yet. She knew she wasn't a swordsman like him. With a glance, she saw Sarund's ax lying on the ground. Ysa used the last of her magicka and flicked her wrist. The ax leaped from the ground and into the back of the Thalmor agent's head. He fell face-first into the mud and moved no more.

Ysa dropped to her knees. The cold numbness in her fingertips that always followed on the heels of overexerting her magicka set in, as did the stinging from the scrapes and bruises all over her. Yet, she was still very alive.

For that much, she was thankful. As her strength returned, she raised to her feet, lightheaded and battered, but the sole figure to have the capacity of even that.

Ysa looked over the bodies of the family. The first face that burned itself into her memory was Hari's. The woman had been so kind to her, even if she was nothing more than a burden.

And her way of thanking her was to let her and her entire family die.

Wilhelm's unseeing eyes looked up at her, face still wet with the last tears he would ever cry, begging her to do the same. Ysa wrapped her arms around herself and hunched over, shivering as she tried to bury the guilty notions creeping up into the furthest depths she could fathom. Even then, she felt as if the boy's mother cursed her in death for failing to defend them.

The first drops of rain began to fall from above, washing the crimson tide and mixing it with mud. Ysa looked up at the sky as thunder rumbled in the distance.

Ysa slipped a hand underneath her cloak and felt for the sapphire necklace hanging around her neck. She took a deep breath and closed her hand around it. It was supposed to be different this time. She wasn't supposed to fail again. But she did anyway.

It made her want to scream.

She looked up at the sky and let the raindrops land on her face. "What a selfish girl I am," she said to herself. Ysa bit her tongue to kill the words before they had time to enter the air properly.

As the rain began to fall heavier, Ysa collected some in her hands and washed away the grime on her face. There wasn't any other way, she decided. She'd done all that she could. As much as she wanted to, she couldn't spend the time mourning them. "Ulpo!" she shouted. "Where are you?"

The lowest rumbling of distant thunder responded, but not the mad Dunmer.

"Ulpo!" she shouted again, louder than before.

"Hello?" he said, putting her fears to rest. The bushes rustled and gave rise to him. He was stained with mud, and his face was caked with dirt, but he held his fork to his chest and smiled as if it didn't bother him. How he'd ended up over there was a mystery to Ysadette. As long as he was safe, that was all that mattered.

"D'oh, my," he muttered as he surveyed the corpses. "Are we taking a nap?" he asked, voice a whisper.

Ysadette removed her cloak and wrapped it around his shoulders. "No, Mentor," she said, hearing the shakiness in her own voice. She swallowed hard and wiped the mess from his face. "We should be on our way. Quickly now. We'll have time for naps later."

Ulpo looked at the bodies again. "Oh, but we can't leave our new friends behind!"

"They'll…" Ysa trailed off as she caught sight of Sarund in the corner of her eye.

Despite his rough exterior and acute dislike of her, Ysadette couldn't bring herself to hate the man. He had to be protective of his family even if that meant mistreating strangers like her. She turned her eyes onward as the rain picked up more to clean the ground of spilled blood.

"They'll be fine without us," she said. "We've already made ourselves a burden for long enough."

As they left them behind, Ysadette looked back one last time and committed the family's souls to Sovngarde.


	3. Mytho, the Phantom of Bravil

3

.~~~.

Mytho squinted at the shafts of light that flooded in at the end of the hall. Moments later, they were swallowed up by the darkness. He figured it was brighter than it was last time he'd seen the outside world, but then again, that had been two days ago. Or was it three? A storm passed over a while ago, so maybe only two.

He leaned back against the wall. The jingle of the chain cuffs around his wrists was a sound he'd grown uncomfortably accustomed to. That and the dark corner cell he'd been tucked away in for however long he'd been there. At the very least, the prison had earned its name; Darkstone.

It was an apt description, he admitted, given that it dark both inside and out. It was a novel idea, really. They wanted to make sure the prisoners were keenly aware of the fact that the last time they'd see and feel the sunlight would be the last free day they lived. The location of it was no accident, either. Mytho knew that going in because he wasn't a fool.

Like all things erected in the name of the Third Aldmeri Dominion, it was a big show of pomp with little substance. They had claimed an island on the route between the Summerset Isles and Cyrodiil's Gold Coast – clearly a way for the haughty jailer to announce to any sailors braving the sea between that they, too, could be locked away given the proper sin.

But, for all the flaunting and menace it put up, it was for political prisoners. Not for seafaring traders. Not unless there was a heretic found among their numbers like the unlucky group that occupied the same hall Mytho was confined to. The Dominion preferred to lock away rebellious Counts and Countesses or anyone else they wanted to bring to heel.

Officially, the place didn't exist. Emperor Titus Mede II, the Great and Spineless Ruler, was under their thumb. By extension, the entire Imperial Legion was as well. A blind eye and hollow words meant to be reassuring were all that would ever come from the mouth of the Empire that stood tall and proud with its tail firmly between its legs.

Unofficially, it was common knowledge the prison was a torture hall that not even the Legion could close without another costly war – one they would likely lose. As with all prisons, however, there were some that would one day be free again. Free, until they were once again taken away in the dead of night and never heard from again. One such man recounted his five-year stint in Darkstone in a short memoir. Most sparingly read his tale, knowing that the further they delved the less they would sleep at night, but all that cracked open its pages had one line burned into their memory;

"Were it any brighter in my cell, and had I not been deafened three months into my sentence, then I would have likely seen the moisture on the floor was crimson if the screams at all hours of the day didn't drive me to madness first."

A fine read, as far as Mytho was concerned. A bit stuffy on the delivery, perhaps, but he wasn't one to speak ill of the dead. Besides, the elves weren't quite as brutal as they fashioned themselves. Mytho would know. Being in prison wasn't a new experience for him.

The Khajiit to the South in Elsweyr? They were capable of truly atrocious sentences. He had the scars to prove it.

But that was why he was in Darkstone, to begin with. If there was a prison that needed to be broken, he would be there. As sure as the sun shined in the sky, he would break himself and the other prisoners out, too. It was called jailbreaking, and he'd made himself a name for being one of the best at it, among other things.

It had been nearly two hundred years since the Gray Fox made the law of Cyrodiil look like a pack of imbeciles. Which they were. In that time, copycats and would-be white rabbits for the guardsmen to chase struggled to make both a name and large sums of coin for themselves. Inevitably, they were caught, tried, jailed, and routinely executed to weed out the rest that hadn't already become criminals.

To Mytho, it was little more than a challenge. One he would rise to meet without hesitation. Besides, he already had a price on his head in two or more Provinces. What would be a better way to prove himself than angering the Dominion, too?

A week was all he needed. A week that would be everything except comfortable but such was the way of his work. Another day would be too long for the escape to be simple but long enough that he could plan his getaway. Any sooner and he might find himself floating face-down in the sea because of a half-baked plan.

The sound of the Warden's iron prod echoed down the hall. The groans and horrified whimpers of the other prisoners seemed to pump his steps up as he trotted by them. He shook the rusty bars of the cells as he passed them, sending the prisoners scrambling to the darkest corners in terror. The Warden didn't seem to be feeling, as he called, "generous" and didn't drop a piece of moldy bread onto the floor of one of the "lucky" cells.

He appeared to be coming straight for Mytho, actually.

The Warden knocked his metal prod against the metal bars separating him from Mytho. "A lovely morning, is it not?" he said. "Oh, but you haven't seen the faintest glimmer of sunlight in a week now, have you? I can imagine you probably don't even know the right time to sleep anymore."

Mytho sighed and raised his head. "Aye, but seeing your sunny face every day keeps me from losing my mind like the rest of these fine lads," he said, jingling his chains.

The Warden laughed. "A week is hardly enough time to even ponder going mad!" he said. "Unless of course, the Ghost is weaker-willed than I thought?"

Mytho shook his head and groaned. "Is that what you're calling me?" he said. "You should've gone with what everyone else uses instead of trying to be special. Or maybe being a High Elf means that your head is in the clouds more than the rest of us?"

The Warden chuckled. "Ah, of course, Phantom of Bravil," he said. "Do forgive me for such a grave mistake."

Mytho smirked. "I'll admit, having your head in the clouds is better than being up your arse as usual."

The Warden didn't laugh again. "That mouth of yours is really beginning to grate on my nerves, Imperial," he growled. The Warden knocked the prod against the bars again to menace him.

"Glad to have disappointed you," Mytho said. "Now, would you mind bothering someone else for a bit? I have _tremendous_ work to do." Mytho moved his arm back and forth suggestively.

The cell door creaked open. The Warden strode into the cell, slapping the prod on his palm. "How dare you speak to me like that," he said, tracing his finger along the length of the prod. "I believe it's time you learned to respect your superiors."

Closer. Closer.

Mytho leaped up. He threw the chains out and wrapped them around the prod to pull it close. The Warden obliged and thrust the prod forward. He missed, and the sharpened tip pierced the stone wall, just as Mytho planned for it to do.

Pride was going to be the Warden's undoing. Mytho threw the chains again and wrapped them around the Warden's throat. He thrashed against the stranglehold, but he couldn't break the chains forged by his own underlings. A few moments later and the Warden found out how hard stone it when he smashed his face against it.

Mytho squatted down to whisper in the drooling Warden's ear. "Should've made sure the chains were locked down, eh, lad?" he said. He grabbed the prod and the keyring from the Warden and stepped lightly over him.

Once outside the cell, Mytho worked on his cuffs with each key until finding the correct one. With a forceful twist, the metal rings dropped to the ground. He shut the door gently behind him and waved goodbye to the sleeping Warden.

He strode down the corridor, unlocking each jail cell along the way to the glee of the prisoners that still had their wits about them. Once despaired groans were quieted and replaced with gasps of disbelief and, dare they say it, joy.

And why shouldn't they be? He was the Phantom of Bravil. No chains could hold him.

Mytho instructed those that could carry themselves to carry those that couldn't, else they find themselves on the receiving end of the infamous poke-stick and its new master. They gathered in the corridor and waited for further instruction.

"Now, lads," Mytho said as he stood atop a crate and looked over them, "Does anyone have the foggiest idea where they're holding the Count of Kvatch?"

"By the Nine!" one of the sailors exclaimed, "They've got Count Sabicus here, too?"

"Why in Oblivion would I be here, if it wasn't for something important?" Mytho asked.

"Sir, it's because –"

Mytho wagged his finger. "Other than the obvious."

Each of the prisoners looked dumbly at each other.

"Not one of us knows for sure, uh, Phantom, sir," one scar-covered prisoner said. "I'd wager they're holding him in the upper level, though. I've heard that's where they like putting nobility. Hotter up there than down here."

"Always looking down us, even in prison, eh?" Mytho said and lifted the prod. "Fine. That's been my destination. You lads make for the exit at the base of the tower. Keep your ears open and eyes peeled. If you see any oils, dump them into the floor and remember where you did. Avoid all light until you're outside and I'll find a way to draw them to me so you can board one of their ships."

The prisoners looked at each other again.

"Go!" Mytho commanded. "Try not to get beheaded. I'll be needing you if we're all going to escape this damned rock."

Mytho allowed them to leave and then turned to go down another corridor. A spiral staircase, lit by a torch, curled up higher into the sky. However, ascending the passage was likely going to be a dangerous move.

 _Odds are somebody will trot down them right as I begin the climb,_ Mytho thought. _Probably another on his heels._

He would have to find another way. Mytho moved in the shadows, making not a sound. He crept up to a door and placed his ear next to it. Two voices laughed from the other side. One to the left. Another was straight ahead.

Mytho kicked the door open and rammed the prod into one of the jailer's ribs. The other leaped from his chair and launched a fireball at Mytho. He swirled out of the way and spun to meet him. Another fireball grazed Mytho's rag-clothes and burned the stone behind him. Since they were throwing things, Mytho hurled the prod. It sailed through the air like a bolt of lightning from above and into the jailer's forehead with deadly precision.

"Perfect," Mytho said as he extinguished his smoldering clothing. "As usual." Not one to waste a good weapon, he recollected the prod.

The room Mytho gracefully emptied was hardly ornate as most of the Dominion's architecture, but it did appear to be somewhat decorated. Judging by the tables and chairs, the mug and plates adorning them, Mytho guessed it was a break room of some sort. However, a jailer's work was never done. If something took place, such as a jailbreak, they would need a reliable way of notifying others. Something loud and obnoxious.

Mytho looked around the room until his eyes caught a large bell hanging over a chute.

He sucked in a deep breath. "Oh, boys?" he shouted down the chute in the highest and loudest tone he could muster. He grabbed the clapper and slammed it against the side of the bell.

Time to move.

Mytho exited into the passageway opposite of where he entered and came to a wonderful sight.

At the end of the hall was a window. Quick and quiet as a breeze, he approached the opening and leaned outside to find his position. A sharp inhale to draw in that salty, nostalgic, ocean air into his lungs and then back into the tower.

He looked to be nearly halfway to the top. With the passageways likely being filled with more soldiers as he stood there, Mytho figured there was only one way left to reach the top. He hoisted himself onto the windowsill and climbed out.

The rushing ocean wind whipped around his legs and through his hair. He breathed it in again. The freedom, it was _intoxicating_.

He put one hand on the uneven surface and moved away from the ledge to heights that would make a lesser man's knees shake. He looked below to see a handful of soldiers rushing into the building. More than that, he could see his method of escaping the island. A brig was moored at the dock on the edge of the island – sails adorned with the Dominion's symbol – begging for a new captain to guide it back into the watery expanse.

Mytho knew he didn't have time to admire the ship and continued to climb until he reached the next floor. He swung his legs in and let go, landing inside the shady halls once more. It was a mirror image of the previous level, but much quieter. The noises came from below. Mostly, they were stomping and shouting in panic as the bodies were discovered, and cells found empty. His trick had worked well enough, but soon they would start searching the prison.

More stone corridors fed into a larger room with a stairwell to the left. Mytho sprinted up, prod raised and ready to stab, but not one soldier was found in the next two levels. Finally, he reached the top of the prison. The cages were arranged in a circle. The ceiling opened in the middle and in each cell with sparse amounts of shade inside the corners. Seagulls gathered above, cawing and dropping whatever they pleased on the solitary prisoner's head. He didn't stir from his outstretched, exhaustive slumber. Being put there was another insult to his nobility, one that surely wasn't lost on him.

Mytho jingled the keys in his hand as he approached the cage door.

The prisoner bolted upright and looked at him, bewildered.

"Count Sabicus Gregol of Kvatch, I presume?" Mytho said with the refined bow he'd practiced throughout the years.

The Count blinked his eyes. "Wh-who?" he stammered. "Who are you? What are you doing here?"

Mytho put the key in the lock. "The missus is rather fond of you, believe it or not," he said.

Gregol's face lit up. "Erinda!" he said. "She sent you here? Why you?"

Mytho fought with the lock. A healthy amount of rust didn't make his job any easier. "Desperate times and desperate measures, sire," he said, "And not one of your guardsmen knows how to pick a lock, let alone have the stones to piss on the Thalmor's doorstep." Finally, the lock gave way, and Mytho pushed the cage door open.

Gregol fought to smile through the sunburned skin on his cheeks. "Smart as a whip, she is," he said. "Fine, good sir. Let us leave this damned place. I assume you've, er…dealt with the jailers?"

"In a way," Mytho said. He looked around the room and found a long rope. "However, that means we won't be taking the front exit."

Gregol's smile was quickly replaced with a frown. "What other way is there?"

"The direct route," Mytho said. "Much more interesting in my humble opinion and crawling with less of our pointy-eared friends."

The Count looked at the rope, then to Mytho and staggered back. "By the Nine!" he said. "You're mad if you think I'm going to jump!"

"Worry not, sire," Mytho said. "This rope ought to be long enough. You can lower yourself to the battlements while I draw their attention. Does that suit his noble self?"

Gregol huffed. He didn't have another option. Mytho had made sure of that much and, being that the man was lord of a County, he was intelligent enough to know that blessings can come in difficult packages.

"Fine," Gregol said. "That will suffice."

Mytho tossed the rope to him. "Tie the know well and start climbing down," he said.

Gregol did as he was told. Just before he was able to climb over the wall, Mytho heard footsteps coming from the doorway. A soldier in golden armor emerged, blade already unsheathed.

"We've got company, sire," Mytho called out. He spun the prod in his fingers. "Watch your arse on the way down. I'd hate to return you to the Countess on a dish."

"Stendarr preserve me," Gregol choked out as he peered over the ledge. He hopped over and began his descent.

The jailer rushed at Mytho, his eyes hot and angry. He held his blade high and thrust at him. Mytho deflected it. A slice meant for Mytho's neck grazed his hair as he dropped low. Seeing an opening, he shoved the prod into the knee joint of the jailer's armor. The jailer stabbed his sword down. It met stone. Not flesh. His next whistling slice caught cloth. Mytho punched into the tiny opening of the helmet. Mytho felt the crack of the elf's nose.

The jailer cried out and kicked his leg.

Mytho fell to the floor. He rolled back and sprung to his feet once again. The now crimson-faced soldier unleashed a flurry of cuts. Blood was obscuring his vision. Pain was clouding his mind. Mistakes were coming.

Mytho swirled around each of the cuts. He jabbed at the armor's weak points in vicious retaliation.

Elbow. Dodge. Knee. Dodge. Gut. Dodge. Mytho kicked the jailer in the chest and shoved the prod into his throat, ending the fight.

Mytho collected the now ownerless sword in his right hand and gripped the prod with the other. A weapon in both hands felt as comforting as a home-cooked dinner. He buckled the scabbard around his waist and leaped onto the ledge.

Gregol was hiding behind a wall on the battlements. Mytho's eyes met his pitiful eyes that begged for help.

Another jailer was unknowingly approaching the Count's position.

Mytho swung out wide. His palms were hot as fire as he slid down the rope. A fireball from the jailer struck above his head and charred the braided fibers. A half-second early release and a roll to soften the landing made his descent quicker. On his feet again, Mytho leaped over the crouching Gregol and sliced at the jailer.

A motion from the soldier's hand caused his body to glow. Mytho knew what he'd done. Ironflesh. Mytho's blade found its mark, but only pierced the skin enough to draw blood.

The jailer launched another fireball at Mytho. It fizzled and popped as it sailed by him and crashed into the wall. Sparks leaped. Smoke lifted. He released a stream of flames from his fingertips. Gregol scrambled out of the way. Mytho slid under the floor, sword held in both hands.

With a grunt, he rammed the rusty prod through the jailer as hard as he could, pinning the jailer to the wall. Mytho tried to yank the prod back, but it was stuck tight.

Gregol uncovered his head and peeked at the carnage. He visibly recoiled. "Mark my word, good sir," he said, gulping loudly. "If we get off this island in one piece, you'll be part of my personal guard."

Mytho grabbed the Count's hand and pulled him to his feet. "It'd be too pompous for me," he said as he ushered the man forward. "I'll be content with the coin. For now, our vessel awaits."

"You have a ship?" Gregol asked. "How?"

"I will soon," Mytho said. "A generous donation from the Aldmeri Dominion."

The Count sighed as they descended a flight of stairs and touched the rocky ground. "Fewer and fewer things separate me from those in my dungeon, it seems."

"Sire, please," Mytho said. "We're all buried the same depth. You never were much different."

They approached the opened gateway leading to the docks. Mytho had to hand it to the crew; they worked quickly. He didn't have long to admire their work, though. A handful of Thalmor soldiers emerged from the base of the tower, their swords ready and spells sparking and smoldering around them.

Mytho pushed the Count toward the gate. "Go!" he shouted. "They'd rather keep me than the rest of you! Get to the ship and tell them to cast off!" Mytho swished his sword back and forth and cocked his head to the side, challenging the jailers. "I'll catch up."

The first jailer twirled his sword and clashed with Mytho's blade. He smashed his forehead into Mytho's unfortunately unarmored one. He stumbled back, dazed from the impact. The jailer traced the tip of his blade across Mytho's cheek. A few drops of red dribbled to his chin. Another scar to add to the collection. Mytho widened his stance and swung his sword with all his might, plunging it deep into the jailer's side.

"I could use your blade, lad," he said, eyeing the sword in his opponent's hand. He swung high. The jailer lost his weapon and a few extremities. While the jailer was still reeling, Mytho reached up and claimed the sword and sank it into its former owner's chest.

The gate began to close again. He was joking before, but they truly didn't want him escaping. However, he couldn't run yet. It was too early. His timing needed to be perfect, or they'd keep it open and chase him to the ship.

Another jailer charged him. Mytho repelled him with a parry.

Five.

A mage clapped his hands together. The blades of his comrades shined like they were filled with sunlight.

Four.

All the soldiers let out a battle cry and rushed towards Mytho.

Three.

Mytho danced around the storm of swords and fire. He drew blood with each swipe.

Two.

He rolled backward as a clap of thunder and a bolt of lightning cooked the air around him. His hair was frayed on end.

One.

Mytho dashed to the narrow opening under the gate. He dropped to his knees and slid, head back and arms out. The tip of his nose brushed the enormous steel door as the final seconds of its drop slipped away.

"Open the gates!" one of the soldiers shouted. "Open the damn gates! He's getting away!"

Mytho laughed. It was far too late for that. He ran like mad down the sandy path towards the docks.

The ship had already set off – its sails outstretched and greedily collecting the strong winds blowing it away. Mytho plunged into the salty depths. The waves tossed and crashed against the rocky upcropping. The salty waters licked and stung every scrape and cut, but the current agreed with him. Hand over hand, Mytho paddled to chase the slow brig. Undersea creatures circled in his presence until the barnacle and algae-covered hull cast its shadow over him.

A rope ladder slung from the deck and dipped into the water.

"Ready the cannons!" Mytho shouted before he could set foot on the ship. "Load 'em with carcass!"

The sailors stampeded to carry out his orders. From above and below deck, the air was filled with shouts and curses between them.

"Cannons ready, sir!" one man shouted after he was finished wrestling with the launcher.

Mytho looked back to the tower. The gates were opening again. "Which window is closest to the oils you spilled?" he asked.

"Lower left!" the sailor said, pointing his finger.

Mytho shoved the man out of the way and kneeled at the base of the cannon. He squinted his eyes, tweaking and tilting the cannon with his view locked on the tower.

"What on Nirn are you up to now?" Gregol asked, emerging from the crowd gathered behind Mytho.

Mytho looked over his shoulder and smirked. "Giving back what's owed, of course," he said, ripping the line back. "Fire in the hole!"

A boom shook the deck as the foul projectile ripped through the air. The crew fell silent as it collided with the wall near the desired opening. It erupted like a furnace. Flames climbed skyward, then exploded from inside the tower as well. Smoke billowed out from every orifice. Seeing that, the crew shouted and cheered, followed by shanties in favor of the Dominion's fall.

Mytho grabbed on to the rigging and climbed high so that all on board could see him. "Now, lads!" he shouted over his new sailing crew, "Full-sail! We've got winds to chase!"

He looked back at the funeral pyre burning for the jail that haunted many would-be revolutionary's nightmares. It was a strike in the face of the Thalmor, and one with a palm opened and with knuckles as the first point of contact.

And to Mytho, giving that slap and the praise following it were delectable.

.~~~.

Mytho looked across the open sea as he stood at the helm and took a deep breath. The ocean winds were healthy and full of a salty scent that evening as they sailed towards the horizon, the Aldmeri prison having vanished hours before, and he was glad for that much. He had sailed through a storm twice before and came out on the other side three men short on the second attempt and only dread for dark clouds left to show for their sacrifices. This time, he could only hope his navigation wouldn't steer them wrong, seeing as his crew was no more than traders who only knew the safer routes.

"I've figured it all out, sir," Count Gregol said as he ascended the stairs, one hand over his mouth to stifle a hiccup. "Without those damned birds cawing in my ears, I've had plenty of time to think!"

Mytho glanced down at the compass he was holding and then up to the Count. He was lurching forward, unsteady as a man could be, and with a bottle in hand, Mytho didn't need to wonder why that was. "Have you now?" he asked. "And while sloshed, no less. I'd envy you right now if I hadn't given up the drink years ago."

Sabicus tilted the bottle up and took a swig. With one hand gripping the rail, he wiped his forearm across his mouth and nodded. "Thash, ahem, that's right," he said. "I remember hearing the people in my castle chattering on about rumors and the like. One, in particular, they were fond of is about some swordsman. Mytho, the Phantom of Bravil, as they called him. Made a mess of things over there during the Skooma riots back in 188, wasn't it? Broken out of damn near every prison in Cyrodiil and then some." Sabicus raised the bottle to his lips and took another hearty sip before gesturing towards Mytho with it. "You're him, aren't you?"

"Guilty as charged, sire," Mytho said, smirking as he leaned on the wheel. "And to be fair, I wasn't to blame for those riots. The guards ought to be thankful I dealt with several of those gang members that were burning the place to the ground."

Sabicus eased down onto the stairs, cradling the bottle as if it were his beloved son. "Explains why the Thalmor wanted to keep you most of all. A criminal over a Count, I won't argue that's a cruel irony." Again, the Count answered his woes by pressing the bottle to his lips. "Perhaps I should feel honored, then, to be in your presence. Or a bit humbled since I didn't realize it sooner. Even the cats down in Elsweyr know about you and that moniker of yours."

Mytho spun the wheel and Sabicus fell against the wall. "Aye, they ought to know my name better than the rest," he said. "Started there when I was a young man. Damn near ended my sailing career. But after I decided it was time I made my departure and returned to my crew, they started speaking of me in a different tongue. Gave me a different name than your men use."

"And that ish?"

Mytho shook his head. "I haven't got a foul enough mouth to repeat it."

Sabicus sat in dumbfounded silence for an uncomfortably long time, his inebriated mind likely working hard to discern what he had been told. When he did figure it out, he broke into a belly-laugh, curling in on himself, his face turning red as he tried to keep from rolling down the stairs. When he was done, he wiped a stray tear from his cheek but continued to giggle to himself. "Must've been the Divines, then, that sent you here today!" he said. "Because if this were any other situation and I was still in m'castle, I'd have put your head on my executioner's chopping block. It'd be a spectacle to be penned down in history when we put you in the ground, you cheeky bastard."

"A novel way of thanking me, sire," Mytho said, shrugging as he steered sharply to the right, swinging the Count against the wall once again.

After Sabicus had steadied himself and lost the shades of green he has passed through, he looked to Mytho again. "Ah, but you should know I am not one to defy th' godsh," he said. "When we reach the shore, I'm sure they would be pleased to see you walk a free man." He peeked into the bottle with one eye and turned it over, not a drop to be found in it. "And I'll make sure that anytime you visit Kvatch, my men will know to look the other way. Consider it a gift."

Mytho raised his eyebrow.

"Yes, yes," Sabicus said, waving his hand dismissively, "in addition to whatever Erinda promised you. As long as it wasn't herself. I haven't forgotten despite my current status."

"That's good, sire," Mytho said, lifting the compass to look closer at it. "And she promised me coin, so you don't need to worry about me spiriting her away."

The Count hunched over and put his arms on his knees. "You really are something!" he said. "Getting yourself tossed in prison just to break yourself and the others out? A courageous move, indeed. And one of the Pale Hangman's no less."

Mytho glanced away from the compass at the name. "Really?" he asked, feeling an odd chill in the warm breeze. "One of his, eh? I didn't see the pasty bastard posturing himself anywhere on the island."

Sabicus nodded. "Well, I suppose I ought to say that it was his. Not so much anymore. His spot of misfortune was a good turn of luck for us, wouldn't you agree?"

Mytho furrowed his brow. The Pale Hangman wasn't a name he wanted to hear, not now and not ever.

"Haven't you heard?" Sabicus asked. "The Dominion killed him. Strung him up for all the elves back in the Summerset Isles to see."

"Must've done something big to piss them off," Mytho said.

"Happened back in Last Seed, just as I got taken away," the Count said, hanging on the railing as the ship lurched in the waves. "Word spread like wildfire. The Dominion didn't want it to, apparently, but not even they can control loose lips. Nobody knows what it was that he did, but for them to exact that kind of punishment after he was given the _honor_ of hunting down all those Blades during the War?" He blew out a breath. "Would've been a sight to see him taken down a peg, regardless. I just hope they buried that _thing_ with him. I could live a hundred lifetimes and be happy in all of them if I never had to see that beast again."

Mytho went silent. After so many years, he could hardly believe such a scourge was put down so simply. It couldn't be true, but then again, the Thalmor weren't ones for falsehoods about their killings. About their true intentions for the Empire, perhaps, but not the scores they had sent to the afterlife.

"I'm feeling rather, er, uneasy," Sabicus said, standing up. "Wake me when we reach the mainland, would you? I'm going below deck. There's a bottle of spice wine down there with my name written on it, you see."

"As you wish, sire," Mytho said, not looking up from the compass as the Count staggered away, hiccuping and giggling to himself.

Mytho let out a long sigh when he was alone and let the crashing waves set him at ease. _What have I gotten myself into this time?_


	4. Clarity in the Rain

4

.~~~.

Ysa was soaked from head to toe, which only increased her loathing of the inconsiderate precipitation more and more. Each time she swept her dripping hair from in front of her eyes, she would be forced to accept that it would only be a few moments before it crept into her view yet again. With a huff and a mumbled curse, she would repeat the action and wish that, for one instance, she could be as uncaring as her Mentor. Or out of her mind, which she believed may be the next step if the awful downpour refused to let up. Better yet, she wished that she still had enough magicka remaining to cast a proper barrier. Unconventional usage and skirting the line of undignified, as far as most high-brow mages are concerned, but none were present to judge her for such an endeavor, and she was far too irate to care even if they were.

"Oh, look at this!" Ulpo called out as he grabbed one indistinguishable raindrop from the multitude of others. A grin spread across his face. Then he caught another, and another, and another.

"Careful, Mentor," Ysadette advised him as he waved his hands frantically. "The ground is slippery! You'll lose-"

The ground beneath her feet loosened. With a yelp, Ysa found that the trees had shifted position and made themselves perpendicular to her.

No, the opposite was true. The trees stood tall and sturdy, exactly as they always had. She was the one that fell.

Moments later, Ulpo's pointed face - gray as dry ash and eyes deep and red - appeared above her. "D'oh, are you hurt?" he asked, flinging one hand outwards to catch a raindrop he didn't even look at as he sat down in the mud next to her.

Ysa groaned and wiped the rain from her face. "Yes, I'm fine, Mentor. Only a bit muddy," she grumbled, "And, please, don't sit down in this. We both needn't…"

Ulpo laid down as well, a perfect mimic to her.

"…Be dirty."

He looked at her smiled. "Do what now?"

Ysa folded her hands across her stomach and bit her tongue. She wanted to be angry, desperately so, but simply couldn't find the strength. "Nothing, Mentor. Nothing. Come, let's find a place to stay until the rain passes. I don't like the idea of it, but it would be in our best interest to stay clean and dry. Or to prevent ourselves from becoming any filthier." She stood up and looked down. Wonderful. Her once white blouse had become nearly brown. Maybe it wouldn't stain if she found somewhere to wash it out soon.

"D'oh, yes," he said. "I'll brew one of those beverages you like. Er, which one was it again?" Ulpo rummaged through his satchel, which contained another fork and a heaping of alchemical supplies and indistinguishable stones.

"You mean the tea made from Canis Root? Would you?" Ysa asked. The earthy, faintly bitter taste was something she never imagined she would enjoy, but at that moment the flavor sounded divine. "I haven't been able to make it properly yet. Something tells me it is the temperature I'm brewing…"

Out of the corner of her eyes, Ysa thought she saw movement – not of trees and bushes waving in the wind – of something bipedal. She squinted her eyes, catching the trail of a cloak as it swept behind a tree trunk. Her hand instinctively searched for Ulpo's, a cold sweat breaking out on her forehead. Ysa whipped her head around. A face, covered in grime and rain-soaked yet unfamiliar, stood within half an arm's reach of her.

"Easy, girl," the man – a Wood Elf – said, whistling through a hole where he was missing a tooth. Another figure, another Bosmer like him, emerged from the leaves and scurried across the branches, bow trained on Ulpo. Yet another stepped out from ahead, the first one Ysa had seen. "Screaming will only make this more unpleasant for all of us."

Ysadette stretched her fingers, willing fire to catch with her magic, but only cinders and smoke responded. The pouring rain smothered both a second later.

The robber pressed the sharpened tip of his dagger against her stomach, tugging at the wet cloth of her shirt as if he intended to cut through it.

"What do you want?" Ysa said.

"Not your life, if that's what you're worried about," the bandit said nonchalantly, tracing his eyes up and over her body until he reached her neck. He grabbed the chain and yanked it forward, pulling her along as well. "Well, would you look at this? Thaum, come here and take a look!"

The Bosmer that had hidden behind the tree trunk approached, his wet cloak slapping against his heels as he walked. His eyes followed the point of the other bandit's knife, then grew dark. They exchanged the necklace with each other, casually tugging back and forth as if it weren't still hanging from her neck. "Silver chain," Thaum said, rubbing his chin, "And a decent sized stone set in the middle. Looks like sapphire but it could just be fake one." He let go and stepped back, his arms folded over his chest. "I suppose it could fetch a nice price. Assuming we bring it to the right person, that is."

The Bosmer with the missing tooth brushed Thaum aside. "Well? How's this going to play out? You can let me have it, or I can, well..." He closed his fist around her necklace and jerked it towards himself, bringing Ysadette so close to his face she could smell his breath. "I'd rather not have to do it another way."

Ysa softened her expression even though she wanted to spit in his eye. "Please, you don't need to do this," she said, whimpering a bit for added effect. "Are any of you wounded? I've studied Restoration magic since I was a little girl. I have no doubts that I could heal any injuries you may have."

Thaum scrunched up his nose. He looked back at the furthest Bosmer, then back to the closer and glanced down at his feet. "Glodon, I say we bring her back," he said with a sigh.

Glodon, the one missing the tooth, whistled again. "But we need money to pay a real healer. If she's lying about being a one, then we'd be wasting our time and our chance."

"So take the necklace now and give it back later if she's telling the truth," Thaum said, crossing his arms. "And were you even listening? I said it may fetch a nice sum. Not that it will. We can't pin all our hopes on one thing alone."

Glodon made a face but didn't protest further. "Fine, have it your way," he said.

Now that the threat of being dragged back to whatever hole the trio crawled out of was becoming a definite possibility, Ysadette wasn't sure if she made the right choice. Healing them there in the woods was what she had in mind, not going back to their hideout to help rebuild their band of robbers. There could be more bandits with them – more than she could count – and yet, she had to protect her necklace.

She couldn't let them have it. She just couldn't.

Ysa swallowed the hard lump in her throat, pushing it past her necklace. She supposed she didn't have much choice. Either death or…

"Take your hands off of her," Ulpo said before she could make her decision.

It didn't sound like his usual self, though – not the nasal voice that lifted and fell in a singsong manner, filled with starts and stops. Ysa craned her neck, watching as he straightened his back, gaining more in stature than he should have from a simple maneuver.

He twisted his head back and forth as if he were relieving his stiffness from a nap, then his eyes flew open – red and horribly dark – as a scowl angled the lines of his jagged face downward. "Now," he said, the tone of his deep voice matching the rumble of the thunder overhead.

Thaum hesitated for a moment, leaning back on his heels as if he were surprised. "Listen, old man," he said, "We've already made a deal. You should step back before things get…"

Anger flashed through Ulpo's eyes as he waved his hand. Droplets of water that once hurried to the water-logged soil became lethargic – moving no quicker than a leisure walk. A flash of lightning illuminated the area in silver and stopped short of reaching its full length, hanging there in the murky sky above, brilliantly shining and tendrils stretched out. Wind-bent branches remained gnarled, and falling leaves stopped midair.

Ulpo, as if in spite of the display, stood tall, his hands clasped in front of himself, not a hint of strain in his expression. "I won't ask again," he growled, enunciating each syllable as if he were speaking to a child.

Glodon looked back and forth, his mouth slightly ajar, eyes wider than what seemed to be comfortable. "W-what kind of magic is this?" he asked, his voice and arms shaking equally. "What are you doing?"

Ulpo shook his head, deep shadows cast on the wrinkles of his face. "Nothing that you could ever comprehend. Now, I offer you a choice. Release her or I will unmake the three of you," he said, lifting his hand with one finger curled.

Ysadette didn't know whether she wanted to be happy or afraid. She'd only seen this side of Ulpo once before. He was hardly pleasant then, either. This time, he was protecting her?

"He's bluffing," Thaum said, blowing out a puff of air. "Probably Illusion magic. You could make someone believe the sky is turned inside out with that, which means he can't do a damned thing to us."

Ulpo didn't falter. With a single motion, he jabbed his curled finger at the bandit in the tree and straightened it.

The bandit looked at his hand and coughed as his skin turned black like a charred piece of firewood and fell away. Red lines traveled up his arm and spread over his chest and neck – a wash of gray following – as he tried to swat them away. His face spread out in panic, yet it was a silent agony. He put his hand to his throat, and still not a sound escaped his mouth. Then, his arm where it had begun fell away, turning to dust, and the rest of his body followed soon after. A small gust of wind rushed through the treetops, spreading out his ashes like a shower of petals.

Glodon held out his hand and caught a speck of dust, mouth agape and legs shaking. "Y'ffre preserve me," he muttered. He dropped to his knees, hands still on Ysadette's necklace, pulling her into a painful slouch. "Please! We'll leave! Just don't kill us!"

Ulpo staggered back and clasped his hands in front of him, blinking his eyes rapidly. A few drops of rain were loosened from his grasp, and the lightning began to move once again. "See that you do…" he trailed off. "What now?"

Ysadette noticed the twitch in his expression, the edges of his lips curling vacantly once again, and the hunch of his back forcing him to bow. His focus, he was losing it. Why? Why couldn't he have held on for a little longer?

No, there was still time. The bandits were distracted. Ysa grabbed the knife and reversed it on Glodon, plunging it into his shoulder.

He howled in pain and ripped her necklace free as he stumbled back. "Little bitch!" he shouted as he pulled the knife back out of his shoulder.

Ysa turned and ran, grabbing Ulpo's hand as she passed and headed straight into the bushes. She knew she wasn't fast, but she had to try. Thaum or Glodon, she didn't care which one, started tearing their way through as well, chasing her.

"Come now, girl!" Ulpo said, smiling wide and toothily. "We can't let those stinky, unruly boys win!" He followed his declaration with a throaty sneeze, enveloping the two of them in a swirl of golden light, making her feel as if she were light as a feather and doubling her speed.

"Alteration magic!" Ysa said, tightening her grip on his hand as she did her best to avoid tripping over her own feet. Even when mad, Ulpo still had quite the assortment of useful tricks and spells hidden away in his sleeve. She took the lead, moving around tree trunks and up the inclines of the hills, feeling as if she could run forever. Ysa didn't know what exact spell he was using, but she knew that the moment she had a chance, she'd have him teach her how to cast it.

When Glodon and Thaum's voices were no longer audible, Ysadette turned her head to search for any movement. Nothing but waving tree branches and bushes.

Then the ground disappeared beneath her. She pulled Ulpo into her arms before she had time to look down. A moment later, she was on her back at the bottom of a ravine – more than a few scrapes to show for it.

However, falling in a ditch and getting scratched was better than being left for dead in the woods.

Ysadette sat up and did her best to remove the pebbles embedded in her skin as she looked back at the cliff. "Are you hurt, Ulpo?" she asked breathlessly.

Ulpo started at the gray sky with studious intent. "D'oh, my. What fun," he said, sitting bolt upright. He gave the cliff a death-glare, beloved, shiny fork in hand. Then he pointed the utensil at the rock face and mimicked the sound of a fiery explosion, complete with a crackling afterglow.

She sighed and shook her head. _I can only hope that's a 'no.'_

Ysadette stood up and helped him to his feet, surveying the area as if she had the slightest idea of where she was. She'd been lost before the bandits had shown up. After running through the woods with reckless abandon, Ysa wasn't even sure if she could find her way to back to wherever lost had been. She focused the tiny amount of magicka she had left into her vision spell, knowing that it would drain the last of it. Any more beyond that and she would be weakened physically, as well. With the haze removed, she traced the area, catching sight of something nestled in the distance. Unless her eyes were failing her, it looked to be a house.

With Ulpo hanging onto her cloak so he wouldn't wander off, Ysadette led him through the woods, drawing closer to the house, sighing when she was able to see it up close. It was a derelict thing, yes – walls covered in green moss and vines – a but it was for that reason she was especially thankful. If it were abandoned, it would make their stay much less complicated. Although if it meant getting out of the rain, Ysa would have found even a bear cave more tolerable than being outside any longer.

She pushed the door open – its rusty hinges squeaking, squeezing the rain-swollen wood – and stepped inside. It smelled of dry-rot left to fester in the absence of a proper caretaker and what wasn't actively decaying before her eyes were splintery and coarse, not sanded down like an adequate carpenter would've done. One lumpy, dust-covered bed – probably rife with things Ysa preferred not to think about unless her stomach curdled – and an aged cooking pot sat in opposing corners.

Ysadette breathed a restrictive sigh of relief. Definitely abandoned. She could only imagine how difficult her stay would be if she stumbled up to someone's doorstep, looking like a drowned pig and probably smelling like one, too. Even worse if it were only a single person living there, man or woman, she didn't know which one would be worse given a witch's penchant for building secluded places in the forest.

Ulpo, radiating purpose and poise, marched towards the dirty bed like a king, removed his bag with unrequired glitz and scrambled across the floorboard until he was underneath the bed. "Girl, you may wake me if that slacker Ajira comes back with my comfy slippers," he called out, "But make sure she's washed them like I asked, oh yes. And dried them in the sun for two and a half hours precisely, that buffoon!"

"Yes, Mentor," she said, pinching the bridge of her nose and wincing. As much as she hated his sleeping on the floor, it was better than what she imagined he was going to do in the first place. He seemed comfortable, at least.

Maybe. She'd never been sure if anything mattered to him. Especially not comfort since he seemed to make a habit of sleeping on the wrong side of beds.

The moment she heard his resounding snores begin, Ysadette delicately lowered herself to the floor as to not rouse him from his muttering rest. She sat in the middle of the room facing the door to watch vigilantly should any danger come bursting through but attempting to meet it with a level head. Unease would only further prevent her magicka from regenerating, she reiterated in her head, and that would mean less power to defend herself if the situation took a turn for the worse.

 _But how can I?_ she thought to herself. She rubbed her neck where the necklace had been so callously snatched away. The red mark stung, yes, but with a snap of her fingers and a drop of magicka that would be nothing but a memory. Memory, though, and sentimentalism was what it left her with. She didn't want her mind to stray, not when the hurt was still hot inside her, but, regardless of her efforts, it did. Ysadette rubbed the corners of her damp eyes.

"Andard," she whispered, "Forgive me."

.~~~.

"Andard, are you here?" Ysadette called out as she let the creaky door to the shop close behind her. "Andard?" she called out again and proceeded towards the middle of the room, the sounds of the dockworkers and sailors chattering loudly just outside becoming quieter as she did.

 _He wouldn't be sleeping, still. He's here, somewhere._

Determined to draw him out, Ysadette approached the middle of the room and began to trace along the shelves lined with curiosities of dubious origins. Timepieces, rusty blades with ornate patterns worn by years of grime, and things unrecognizable to her eyes adorned the room. Some were even dusted recently, much to her surprise. For a moment, she began to think about what he'd done to acquire the items. It was unlikely he had done anything illegal - he wasn't the type - but dangerous?

Absolutely.

However, before she had any time to ponder what exactly that was, a thundering sound like an approaching caravan filled the room, the source causing the items on the shelves to bounce. Ysadette reached out and caught a vase as it fell from the shelf to stop him from depleting his inventory, but hardly paid attention to the clattering Dwemer artifact that came crashing down behind it. She only had two hands, after all.

Andard, sandy hair falling into his eyes and clothes wrinkled and lopsided, appeared from around the corner at the back of the shop, wide smile already in place. "Ah! I thought it sounded like you, Detta," he said, placing his hands on the counter wide apart. "What's brought you to my end of the docks?"

"Simply browsing, but I only have a little bit of time today," Ysadette said as she paced along the walls, one finger dragging along the lowermost shelf and collecting dust. Andard missed a spot in his regular cleaning, it seemed. "My Mentor wants me to…" she trailed off and clamped her mouth shut. She set the vase properly back on the shelf in hopes of discontinuing that explanation. She hastily returned the Dwemer contraption to its place as well, damning the unsettling quietness that ensued.

Andard mumbled something unintelligible but loud enough to break the thickening silence in the shop. "He wants you to do what? Go on," he said.

Ysadette pursed her lips. "Gather a few stones. Smooth ones no larger than a chicken's egg, in particular," she said. Despite wanting to avoid talking about the old elf, it seemed that he had invaded her thoughts, even while away from him.

"Rock collecting, eh?" Andard said. "That's what he's come up with? Isn't that a bit…"

Ysadette narrowed her eyes at him. She could already guess his pointed words before they left his mouth. "Yes, yes. I know, Andard. You think this is silly. Nonsensical."

"And I think he's playing you for a fool, Detta," Andard said. "Do you ever wonder what he's really wanting, or have you been too deep in your spell tomes to think about it?" Andard took a metal strongbox from underneath the counter and placed it on top. "He probably doesn't know the first thing about magic, or only knows a few basic spells to put you off his trail," he said as he unlatched the box and removed a necklace from inside. Andard tugged at the cloth hanging from his shirt and vigorously wiped the dull piece of jewelry. "Sooner or later, he'll blunder into his own lie."

Ysadette sighed. She removed a book, _Aedra and Daedra_ , from the shelf and thumbed through the pages. "We've had this conversation before, Andard. I wouldn't dare say that he's coherent, but to call him anything short of brilliant would be a grave mistake," she said. The more she thought about him though, the more she began to linger on his lessons. Absentmindedly, she placed one hand on her chin, the book no longer holding her attention. "When he is coherent, though, everything he says, what I've learned from him already…"

Andard slammed the box down on the wooden surface to make a point, no doubt. "Is likely going to turn you as mad as he is if you ask me. You can't have learned all that much in a few weeks!"

"On the contrary," Ysa jabbed one finger in the air and made a prideful stride. "Today, he taught me about the telekinesis spell. After removing one of my Goldenrods, he carried it around the room by simply waggling his fingers. I asked him how to do the same, and he said…" she paused. That part of the lesson she failed miserably at, but she knew to keep that to herself. Best not to let Andard know or he would use that as a point for future reference.

"He said?" Andard asked after clearing his throat emphatically.

Ysa crossed her arms. "Shift your mental weight," she muttered, barely able to hear her own voice in her head. But, now that she was able to listen to it without the frustration of her repeated failures clouding her mind, it made a bit of sense after all. Not enough to allow her to fling objects from the shelf into the big oaf across the room's gloating face, but enough that she counted the lesson as slightly useful. "Shift you mental weight. Shift your…"

"I'll take that as meaning all the Fool has done is kill one of your flowers," Andard said. "Truly wonderful."

"No, no. He replanted it as well," she said. "And watered it. With, er, some mead. Do you think plants can get drunk?"

Andard shook his head. "As if I expected anything different from the King of Fools," he said. "I can let his madness slide since that seems to be the only thing he's good at, but I only wish I knew what was going on in _your_ pretty head these days. What happened to that sensible girl that strolled into town after Alik'r Desert with sand still in her hair?"

Ysadette returned his dumb question with the chilliest frown she could give. "Standing in your shop giving you probably the only business you will get today, maybe even this week," she snapped. "But she might show herself out if she feels insulted any further."

Andard frowned back at her and carefully placed the necklace back in the strongbox.

Ysadette crossed her arms and turned to fully face him. Every time the topic of her new housemate became the center of the conversation, Andard was compelled to challenge her thinking. She was mostly sure that Ulpo was not a liar or a cheater, so why not leave her be? She had no intentions of backing down, so if it were a stalemate he wanted, he would get one, and one for the ages if she were capable of providing it.

For a moment, it appeared that Andard intended on standing his ground. The air between them soured. He worked his jaw like it was filled with a sizable wad of cotton. He thumped his fingertips on the store counter rhythmically. He made his intentions clear, but as she expected, his face softened after a bit.

"Fine, fine. I apologize," Andard said as he left his place and walked around to the front to join her in the middle of the shop.

He had a peculiar look on his face, one she might even call dishonest, but he already apologized, so that was enough to let it rest.

"Don't misunderstand me, Detta," he said, placing his hand on the small of her back. "I'm not trying to convince you that you should toss the old bum out on his ass. I just want to make sure you don't get so lost in the idea of learning something new that you get taken advantage of. You know better than I do that there are dangerous things out there, and I wouldn't want you getting wrapped up in a mess that you aren't able to run away from."

Ysadette, even though she wanted to pursue it further and remind him that she was, in fact, not a hapless airhead, decided it was best to let the argument fizzle out with his apology. It was hardly worth ruining both their moods for the day. Besides, he didn't know the extent of Ulpo's knowledge, not that she did either, nor could Andard fathom the absurdity that the elf churned out daily. "Yes, I know. Apology accepted. So will you trust me, Andard? Trust that I know what I'm doing?"

Andard, without warning, clasped his hands in front of her and pressed her body against his. "As long as you promise me that you'll kick that old fool back into the Abecean Sea if you find out he's more lecherous than he lets on," he said, sneaking a kiss just below her ear.

Ysa placed her hands over his and swayed her hips back and forth, letting him work his way down her neck. "More so than you?"

"It's often lechery on your part if my memory serves me correct, Detta," Andard said, his hands beginning to search for a way underneath her clothes. "Now, do you promise?"

The tickle of his breathing on the back of her neck radiated out into goosebumps. The words in her head blurred together, and her face grew hot. Ysa squirmed, which was probably what he wanted her to do, and nodded. "I-If it calms your jealousy, then you have my word. Now, let go of me before things get out of hand. The shop is still open."

Andard groaned and released her. He shrugged his shoulders and started back towards the counter. "Me? Jealous of someone who resembles a rotting corpse left in the sun too long rather than a man? Never. But you know how older fellows can be at times, so sleep with one eye open," he said as he disappeared into the storage room in the back.

Without much fanfare, he seemed to return to work in anticipation of potential customers. "Should I leave you for now?" Ysa called out when she heard him begin moving crates.

A thud sounded, evidently from him tossing a heavy object aside with little care where it landed. "No, no! I have something that you may be interested in!" Andard shouted much louder than he needed to. "I simply need to…" he trailed off but grunted to punctuate the thought. Andard passed through the curtain once again, a book held under his arm. He dropped it on the table and motioned for Ysadette to approach.

"What do you think?" he asked.

Ysa picked up the book and looked at the black-as-night cover. She turned it over in her hands, feeling the heaviness of it, almost making her want to drop it back on the table as she moved her thumbs across the surface of it, trying to find an indention where the title may have been before being lost. There was nothing. How odd. For some reason, it was warm, almost like it was alive.

 _Andard must have been excited to show this to me,_ she thought.

"A sailor came in here the other day with it," Andard said. "Told me he and the rest of his crew found it in on an island, deep inside a cavern in the hands of a skeleton."

"Really?" she asked. "That sounds a bit fanciful for a merchant ship. I was under the impression they didn't stop anywhere besides ports."

"I have my doubts as well, but he went on to say that a shipmate opened the book one night and started acting strangely."

Ysa pushed her fingers onto the edge of the pages and tried to open the book. However, she was met with unexpected resistance. It was possible that the pages might have been sticky from ocean air, so she stopped her attempt in fear of tearing them. "How so?"

Andard leaned forward on his elbows. "He read it for around ten or so minutes, then shut it up quick. The one who sold it to me said the man started laughing like he heard the most hilarious joke ever told. Then he called everyone together for a meeting where he announced that the moment they reached shore he was done sailing for good."

"Why does that matter?" Ysa asked. "Perhaps the contents had a nugget of wisdom that made him question his life choices."

"Well, my dear, that man was the captain," Andard said. "According to the sailor, seeing such a drastic change in the captain set the whole crew on edge the rest of the trip. The only thing he could do to calm the rest down was to sell the book as soon as they docked."

Ysa held the book close to her body as she soon found the story Andard was telling far more interesting than a featureless tome with as dull color as a book could have. "And the captain? Did he leave?"

Andard nodded. "Yes, in fact, he did. He was the first one to walk down the plank when they anchored outside. After that, he disappeared into the crowd without so much as a goodbye. Rather dishonorable, if you ask me, but that's how the story ended."

"Have you read the book?" asked Ysadette, hearing the own tremble in her voice. She wasn't a superstitious woman, but she could imagine why the captain's behavior made the crew uneasy.

Andard laughed, seemingly unfazed by the oddity he shared with her. "Of course not! Reading is not on my list of interests. It is in yours, though, and I figured this might've been one you hadn't read yet."

Ysa held the peculiar book at arm's length and scanned the cover once more. _But there's no title at all. Perhaps an early manuscript?_ she thought.

"Well, I'll admit you have piqued my curiosity," she said, once again trying to open the book to no avail. "If only I could open it myself. The captain must have done something to it. Perhaps there's a lock that I can't see."

Ysadette found that within moments of studying the void cover, her mind no longer yearned for the moment at hand. Instead, it was buzzing with fantasies about the contents of her newfound tome. The mystery of it commanded her attention in a similar way the esoteric knowledge hiding inside Ulpo's psyche did, but without a single word, spoken or written. Familiarity consorted with the inexplicable, leading her to feel as if she had held the book in her hands before while not recalling when and where. Desires to know what was within fostered until she wondered if perhaps she was always meant to hold the book. Had the captain experienced the same lust? Did the revelation of what was inside dash his hopes and drive him mad, or was it something so extraordinary that even she was incapable of imagining it? Is that why he locked it away? She wanted, no, she needed to know.

"Er, Detta?" Andard said.

The sound of his voice disturbed the trance she descended into, and she found herself only a step away from the door. Ysadette turned away from the book, embarrassed at how engrossed she became and how quickly she forgot about his presence.

He raised one impish eyebrow, his lips drawn into a crooked smile. "I see that you're eager to collect some stones for the Fool," he said. "Should we meet up later, then?"

Ysa felt the heat in her cheeks and hoped they were not red enough to call attention to her. "Y-yes. Later," she said and exited the shop.

.~~~.

Ysadette opened her eyes to the rotten wood door in front of her. The scent of moss no longer dominated her senses, but now another, fresher one that she welcomed. Heavy rain was still pouring outside, one drop falling from above and splattering on the crown of her head. Ysa took a deep breath and, after feeling the magicka in her fingertips stronger than before, estimated that she was well on her way to full regeneration rather soon. Maybe for an hour? Ideally, she wouldn't have needed to worry about it. She and Ulpo would have made it to Chorrol without any issue and bid their new traveling companions goodbye.

She lowered her head and sighed. Now the whole family were lying face-down in the mud and likely learning more about the afterlife than she cared to find out. Because she was too slow. Because she was too weak. Sarund had given her a look that couldn't have been anything other than a call for aid. Yet she had done nothing but arrive moments after the inquisitors executed his wife and child.

Another drop landed on her head, snapping her back. Thoughts like those would only slow her down, anyway. She was responsible for only two people that she knew of; her and her Grand…

No, not her Grandfather. Her _Mentor_. As often as she'd been repeating the lie, it didn't surprise her that it'd become reactionary to refer to him that way.

But was it really right to cleanse herself of all blame? Did her subsequent execution of the inquisitors mean justice was achieved? Was that justice only a means of convincing herself that she did help them, albeit in a way the family would never see?

A gray hand, knuckles white from the aged skin stretched over them, settled gently on her shoulder and stopped her just short of spiraling back into self-deprecation. Ysadette turned around to see a friendly smile on Ulpo's face, his other hand extended with a cup of steaming liquid. He waited a few moments for her to take up his offer, and when he saw no response, he moved it closer so that she could inhale the aroma as if he knew that would entice her without fail. After she took the cup, Ulpo, demonstrating thoughtful care that she didn't expect, removed the cloak from his shoulders, which was hers in the first place, and draped it over her.

It was dry.

Wordless throughout it all, he returned to his place next to the softly bubbling pot and stirred it with squinted eyes.

Ysadette sipped her tea. It was hot but not hot enough to scorch her mouth, and she immediately knew the taste. A perfect balance of earthy and bitter danced on her tongue, refreshing her as she drank deeper into the cup. It was a flawless blend, just as it always was when he made it. She looked back over her shoulder, watching curiously and wondering if Ulpo were still mad or not.

She guessed that she'd likely never know. Ysadette pulled her cloak tightly around her shoulders, sipping at the cup and letting a smile spread across her face as her body warmed up from the inside out.

 _Maybe the rain is tolerable after all,_ she thought.

A drop of water fell from above once again and splattered on her head.

 _Almost._


	5. Dead Men Walk

5

.~~~.

Mytho spun the wheel one final time and breathed a sigh of relief as the vessel came to a rest and bobbed in the water. Mooring a ship on a rocky shore – waves pounding and angry and without a dock to speak of – without a scratch in the hull was an accomplishment he'd be proud to relay. To the proper ears, at least. It'd show those hoity-toity merchants that fancied themselves sailors what a true seaman's skill looked like. Unfortunately, not a single man outside the crew would ever see his handiwork, leaving Mytho to feel somewhat cheated.

He folded his arms on the wheel and watched as the rest of the crew, their jobs completed now that the ship had come to a rest, collected whatever items the Thalmor had stored and began to disembark. Some bagged their items and tossed them into the tossing sea, themselves plunging in soon after, while others claimed the lifeboats and rowed their way to shore. They were jolly now, but by sunset, they'd be butting heads over who owned what and which shined the brightest. Being part of the same crew, however, meant they'd be setting their greed aside for the sake of unity. It was one of the first lessons the sea had taught Mytho when he was a young man.

That, and driving a ship right into a bustling harbor lined with eager guardsmen was among the worst ideas a self-professed captain wanting to avoid the headsman's block could muster up. Thus, his decision to stop along the shore a sizable distance from Anvil's port.

"By the gods!" Count Gregol said, slapping Mytho on the back as he passed. "I thought you intended on running us aground, good sir!"

Mytho suppressed his groan. _One more word out of you and I might think about it_. "Aye, but I'd never be able to respect myself with a ship as fine as this."

Gregol nodded, his expression as devoid of anything meaningful as a sheet of paper. If it were any indication, he probably had no idea the craftsmanship the Aldmeri Dominion displayed in the construction of the ship. "They probably used the coin they pillaged from the Imperial City during the Great War to build it, eh?" he asked, one hand idling on the woodwork interwoven with the Dominion's characteristic moonstone. "Lavish, as I'd expect them to be, the stuffed-shirts."

"There's probably more gold sunk into this ship than there is in your castle vault, sire," Mytho said, gathering up the two treasure bags at his feet. He pushed them into the Count's arms and directed him to the last remaining lifeboat.

"Where are you off to now, Phantom?" he asked.

Mytho cut the rope and dropped the raft into the water below. "I'm going to let her free," he said, patting the railing as he returned to the wheel. "If I left her here, the Thalmor would probably be able to track us easier. I don't think I'd be up for saving your arse another time, either. Wait for me on the shore, and I'll send you off when I'm done."

"But you said it yourself!" Gregol shouted. "It's a fine vessel!"

"It is! Not fine enough to have my head lopped off for, though!"

Gregol went silent for a few moments. "Right-o! As you wish!" he said and began rowing himself towards the beach.

Mytho breathed out a laugh. Perhaps the man wasn't as addled as he thought.

It was slow and miserable work with no crew to speak of, but Mytho raised the sails and turned the ship seaward once again. Currents and winds permitting, he'd have it sailing back the way they'd come from and probably spooking any sailors that happened upon it. A few days later, rumors of and Thalmor ghost ship would swirl. Then, at long last, Mytho could have the vindication he craved for his endeavors. When she ship lurched forward, he took that as his cue to leave as well. With a courteous bow to her beauty, Mytho leaped overboard and into the salty ocean below.

He arrived on the beach soon after, the ship picking up speed and hurrying towards the horizon, lonely and solemn. Mytho hauled himself up and shook the water from his hair and out of his ears.

The Count, in a state of dryness, sat atop a dune with the bag held close like it were a child. "I'll admit, good sir, that you are both a stellar swordsman and a fine captain!" he said. Gregol stood up and offered the bags of treasure in a refined manner, contradicted by his sunblushed skin and tattered prison rags. "But I fear that this is where we part ways, Phantom."

"Not yet it isn't," Mytho said, taking the bags and putting them under his arms. "I believe you're forgetting something."

Gregol's brow furrowed. "How do you figure?"

Mytho nodded his head towards the tree line a fair distance from the beach. A figure peeked out, face obscured underneath a hood, and was followed by another with their sword already drawn. Mytho waved to them both, to which the hooded figure stepped out fully and scurried towards them.

She was right on time, then.

Gregol turned around and to face them as the duo approached. "E-Erinda?" he asked, his eyes widening, "Is that you?"

Countess Erinda looked back and forth before she removed the hood, pulling at the tight bundle of hair on her head to keep it straight. At first, she walked stiff and proper, a picaresque of a true noblewoman, stiff-upper-lip and all, but when the Count started towards her, she gathered her skirts and began to run.

Gregol pulled her into his arms, and she buried her face in his chest. "What on Nirn are you doing here?" he asked.

Erinda looked up, her face splotchy and red. "I had no choice, Sabby," she said, tears spilling down her cheek. "I couldn't let you leave without seeing you one last time."

Gregol stifled a laugh. "One last time?" he asked. "What are you saying? You don't need to worry anymore. I'm free! I can return to the…" he trailed off, his eyes growing distant as the realization likely running through his mind made itself known in his face.

Mytho pursed his lips. The part of the job he hated had arrived, nasty as if ever could be. He'd seen it too many times. Break one spouse out of prison to reunite them with the other only to find out that being together was nothing more than a liability.

Count Gregol looked over his shoulder at Mytho, his confusion no longer speaking confusion, but fear, anger, and disbelief. "You said nothing of this!" he snapped. "Was this simply some grand joke to you?"

Mytho shook his head. "You think rather lowly of me, don't you, sire?" he asked. "I'm a liar, a cheater, a killer, a thief, but I am not one to find enjoyment from another person's undeserved misery."

"Then, why?" Gregol roared. "You release me from my unjust imprisonment, bring me back to my wife in one piece and then tell me I can't go home?"

"Sabby, please," Erinda said, tracing her hand across the Count's jawline.

"Let me ask you a question, sire," Mytho said, a long, exasperated sigh sneaking out of his lungs. The next words he spoke would need to be chosen carefully unless he wanted to do battle with the guardsmen waiting with his sword already drawn in excitement. It would be a simple maneuver, judging by the boy's stance, but that would mean his payment would be lost with the guard's life. "What's a life in chains? What's it good for?"

"I don't care!" Gregol said, hugging Erinda closer. "I'd go to prison all over again. I'd sit underneath that blasted sky and burn until I'm nothing but ashes if it meant she'd be by my side."

Mytho sighed again and shook his head. "Eloquently put, sire, very much so, but closer to the truth than you might realize," he said. "If you return to Kvatch as a pair, you'll be dragged off in the night by the Dominion by the same rope, too. If you're extraordinarily lucky, that is. There's also the chance they'll just hang you from your own battlements. Being caught in active defiance of the Aldmeri Dominion's wishes for the banning of Talos worship would be in direct defiance to the Emperor, as well. And Mede isn't one for pardoning treason, as I've heard. And the punishment for treason is…"

"I know what the damned punishment is!" Gregol shouted.

"If you won't listen to him, listen to me," Erinda said, raising her voice. "I am the one who begged the Phantom for his help. I had our Steward arrange several meetings with him so the three of us could plan how to free you. I begged him to find another way that we could stay together, but the answer was always no. It would be too dangerous for both of us to return to our lives as they were."

"But he said it himself, Erinda!" Gregol said. "He's a liar How do we know he isn't lying to us now?"

Erinda shook her head. "What reason would he have?" she asked. "What could he gain? It wouldn't increase his reward, nor would he gain some social standing that he didn't already have."

"Or maybe he's as evil as they say!" Gregol said. His fists were balled and shaking as if he were entertaining the idea of throwing a punch. There was hatred in his eyes, plenty enough for him to raise his hand if there was a drop of courage to be found in him. "Nothing but a selfish _cheat_."

Mytho bit his tongue to keep himself from calling the man an emotional idiot as he turned and left the two of them alone to hash things out on their own terms. They didn't need him listening in on their family drama. Whatever happened afterward was out of his hands, his job already being completed. He did hope, though, that his words would make some semblance of sense in the Count's mind. Otherwise, the next time he saw either of them would be on the tip of a spike.

Poignant as that worry was, making a decision for the Count wasn't part of the contract. He wouldn't dare commit a crime so grievous as to remove freedom from another, anyway. A lovely spot in the shade of a tree called to Mytho where he could wait for the conclusion to their talk. He tossed his bags onto the golden-grass covered ground and sank down next to them, arms folded behind his head. He sighed, the tense muscles in his back unwinding against the cool and comfortable soil beneath him. If he weren't careful, he'd be dozing off in no time.

 _A life in chains,_ Mytho thought. _Wonder if understood what I meant._

He rubbed the marks on his wrists where the heavy iron cuffs once hugged tightly. The Count probably couldn't comprehend what kind of horror a life without freedom is. Literal as he was, he probably thought of actual chains, not the invisible kind that kept him from making his own choices, from being himself, forcing him to craft his life around fear of what may bring it to an end.

As Captain Vhos told Mytho when he was young, _"Living your life by the terms of another is a prison few realize they've been locked away in."_

It probably wasn't so profoundly stated and more profanely spat given the old Redguard lived with a ship's wheel in one hand and a bottomless wine bottle in the other, but he couldn't argue with that perspective. Mytho had watched his father turn from a hardened soldier to an embittered old fool dogged by his own paranoia, all his choice taken from him by fear and misplaced loyalty. It was tragic, though, that Captain Vhos burned alive tied to the mast of his ship when the Empire caught him. He'd managed to teach everyone on board – young and old – what true freedom looked like in the most vivid fashion.

It was flipping a coin to see if it were heads or tails, then spitting in Nocturnal's eye and living by your own creed, regardless of her flimsy luck.

" _Besides, you can never trust the treacherous bitch,"_ Vhos went on to say. _"You may be able to flip that coin a hundred times, and she'd grant you heads on ninety-nine of 'em. But on the last, it'll come up tails because she got bored of seeing you happy."_

Mytho laid flat, watching the branches sway back and forth while sunlight peeked through the gaps until he shut his eyes. Literal chains were better than the figurative kind, he figured. The former could be felt before they choked the life out of someone.

A jingling coin purse opened his eyes again. Countess Erinda stood above him, a cautious smile on her reddened face as she tossed the bag to the ground next to him. "Your coin," she said, wiping her tears away with her sleeve.

Mytho took the coin bag in his hands as he stood up. "Aye, that means our business is concluded then," he said. His back itched from lying on the ground – a dreadful combination with his sunblushed shoulders.

"Thank you, Phantom," Erinda said, bowing her head. "You could have disregarded my pleas for fear that it was all some elaborate ruse to capture you. And yet you still aided me when nobody else could."

Mytho shrugged. "I'd think you sharp enough to know that your County doesn't have enough guards to keep me in the dungeon for long."

Erinda smiled a that, but not much. "Forever humble, are we?"

"I'm only stating a fact, Milady," Mytho said.

She let her paper-thin smile widen. "Indeed, but that will no longer be an issue," Erinda said. "As Sabby told you, Kvatch is open to you from this day forward. You needn't worry about the guards troubling you should you decide to visit. And if there's anything at all you ever need, don't hesitate to come to the Castle and ask for my aid."

"I'll keep that in mind," Mytho said as he tried to work out how to carry the trio of bags he now possessed. "But I've got another bit of business to take care of for now. I hope that offer will still be standing when I do find myself in the city."

Erinda covered her mouth and snickered.

Mytho raised his eyebrow at her, asking her what she found funny without a word.

"Forgive me," she said. "I had only imagined you running off to reunite with some secret family of yours after every job."

Mytho made a face. It was her kindness that gave those innocent words a point. "Uh, no, ma'am," he said. "That's not what I had in mind. But my plans aren't important at the moment. Has the Count…"

"He's not left yet," Erinda said, shaking her head. "He won't until tomorrow morning. We'll be spending one last night together. Then, he'll be off to Skyrim or perhaps Hammerfell if he can stand the sun any longer."

Mytho gave her an extravagant bow, sweeping up the bags of treasure in one fluid motion. "Then, my dear, consider this our goodbye."

"One more thing!" Erinda piped up before he could turn away. "It would be horribly rude to leave you out here without any means of traveling. I've brought a fine mare with me. Won't you take her off my hands?"

Mytho lifted the treasure and the bag of coin in both hands and thought about the long walk to Anvil. Using both hands to carry the spoils of his adventure left him with exactly zero to hold a blade with. He was brave – mesmerizingly so he'd readily admit – but not brave enough to march from along the Gold Coast with his hands full of objects someone with an eye like his would be keen to claim for themselves. He wanted to vanish into the woods without a trace if only for caution's sake but, seeing as he was being offered something even more than he expected, Mytho decided that he could take his chances at being followed. "You're very generous, Milady," he said, "Thank you."

.~~~.

Anvil was a quaint place that Mytho found relaxing, a perfect location for him to celebrate another job completed. The closeness to the sea helped set him at ease, and most of the town wouldn't look twice at strangers due to the number of foreigners arriving. With all the muck on his face, he could quickly vanish into the crowded streets and assume the identity of a destitute traveler looking for the closest inn. After that, it wouldn't matter all that much who saw him or called out his presence. The guards knew better than to trust the drunken, late-night ravings of men, mostly Nords, who drank their fill of alcohol three flagons ago. Even fewer would believe that one of the Sons of Skyrim, tripping over themselves, straggly beards still wet with the last few swigs of mead, had encountered the most infamous man in the Fourth Era thus far. Not that many knew his face.

Only one person in the city did for sure. If he could help it, though, Mytho wouldn't bump into them before he left for wherever he decided to go next.

The night was falling by the time he reached the dockside tavern, The Grinning Slaughterfish. His stomach said that The Count's Arms would have been a better choice and his throbbing head would have agreed if it weren't for the damn tourists coming to see that historic landmark and because of the name of the tavern itself. Mytho had heard enough about Counts for one day, for one life, even. And he'd especially heard enough of their perpetually blabbering mouths. So, the tavern named after a fish with razor teeth it was.

The establishment was strangely empty for that time of night. The innkeeper was there, shining a flagon until it was reflecting the candlelight at Mytho as he took the seat in the darkest corner he could find, but no one else was there. He half expected to see one or two of the escaped sailors from the prison there with him, rejoicing before they, too left their lives behind, but no. Not one of them were present. With a nonchalant glance from dead eyes, the innkeeper set the flagon down after flashing it at him a few more times. Not a word was spoken as he did but, with yet another apathetic acknowledgment of Mytho's presence, he disappeared into the storeroom behind the bar.

Short hairs on the back of Mytho's neck stood up. Something was clearly wrong with that innkeeper. One customer in the entire tavern and he doesn't even ask if he wants food or drink? He must have been a damn poor merchant if that was how he treated customers or something else was going on that Mytho was sorely unaware of. Years of misplaced trust and the consequences of it drove Mytho to dig his fingers into the tabletop and place bets on the latter.

The door swung open, creaking as if it were pained by the action, and two figures strolled in through the open door. Both were a head and shoulders taller than Mytho, but one was wider than the doorway itself, having to turn sideways to enter. Neither said the word to him and didn't speak. The largest of the two plodded across the room and pushed two seats together to sit at the bar. The thinner of the pair pulled out the chair across from Mytho and sat down. He laid his arms flat on the table and folded his pale hands together. After refraining from speaking a word for half a minute, he cleared his throat with a wet crackle.

"Can't you take a hint, lad?" Mytho asked. "Table's private."

The man leaned forward, a near-silent chuckle escaping his lips. "So was your cell, Florentius," he said in a breathless voice.

Mytho bolted upright, to which the wide man turned halfway around. "Would you mind telling me where you heard that name?" he asked, leaning carefully back against the chair.

The man scratched underneath his neck covered. "You've done well covering the tracks of your heritage," he said.

The innkeeper emerged from the storeroom with a large bottle and brought it directly to the table. He set two glasses in front of them and poured both full of wine. Without another word, he bowed his head like he were in the presence of royalty and disappeared into the storeroom.

"Your father's record in the registry was the giveaway, however," the man continued, taking a sip of his wine. "Even you are incapable of erasing who he was."

Mytho balled his hands. "The cranky old bastard was a Blade. What does that matter?"

"Today?" the man asked, swishing the wine around. "It doesn't. But you asked a question, and I answered it. And you weren't inducted into their order before it was disbanded, so you needn't worry about that anyway."

Whoever the man was, he knew more about Mytho than he was comfortable with anyone knowing. He'd all but buried his name, only letting the people closest to him know it and now some stranger perched in front of him as if he were an old friend there to exchange witty banter. "Aye, that you did. Thank you for the drink as well, sir, even though I haven't touched the stuff in years. But I have to ask; shouldn't you and your mates be on your way?" Mytho reached down to his blade and pushed it up from the sheath with his thumb, "Before things get ugly?"

The man at the bar thundered to his feet, but the one across from Mytho waved his hand to call him off. He then placed both hands on his neck covering, and began to unwrap it. A few wisps of snow-white hair fell into view and settled on his chest as he did. With careful unwinding, like one removing bandages from a sword wound, he slowly revealed himself. He winced once or twice, whatever was underneath still causing him pain as he piled the cloth on the table next to his wine.

Ice ran up Mytho's spine when he saw the scars – red and purple, lined by faintly glowing runes. "Well, blow me down," he said, hoping to push the beads of sweat back into his forehead. "I'm but a humble, drifting swordsman. To what do I owe the pleasure of being visited by the dead?"

"Burning out a prison of the Aldmeri Dominion has a way of garnering my attention," he said. "Doing so while being imprisoned there yourself is another accomplishment."

Mytho nodded, feeling himself swell with pride. "So that's what this is about?" he asked. "One of the men I escaped with said it was yours. It was, wasn't it?"

He took another sip of wine. "Was. I'm not affiliated with the Dominion any longer, as I'm sure he also told you. That being said, I simply cannot permit any transgressions against them to go unpunished."

"Vigilantism is beneath you, wouldn't you agree?" Mytho asked. "Or do you think they'll take you back if you remain loyal to them, Pale Hangman? Pretend they didn't try and clearly fail to take your life?"

The Pale Hangman stopped with wine held to his lips, a second before taking a drink, then set it down gently enough to not spill a drop. The knocking of glass on wood was deafening, but it reverberated oddly as if it were dropped in another room.

The back of Mytho's head seared and his vision went black. Pieces of the smashed wine glass embedded in his skin, the alcohol burning in his wounds. An enormous, clawed hand wrapped around from the back of his skull to his forehead, squeezing tight enough to force out an involuntary groan.

"Watch your mouth," the Pale Hangman said without raising his voice in the slightest. "You're in a den of wolves now, Florentius."

The wide man behind him dug his claw-covered hands deeper into Mytho's head, threatening to pierce through and break him open like a nut underneath someone's boot. He fought back the urge to scream, but a few whimpers escaped anyway. No one brought him to his knees. Not even someone who'd severed a hundred heads like him. He flared his eyes at him, deliberately showing his insolence.

The Pale Hangman looked over the edge of his glass, unmoved by the act, and took another dismissive sip.

Mytho beat his fist on the table to cover his grunts. He opened his palms and pressed them against the table, the room growing distant. "S-Stop, stop!" he cried just before the figures became shadows. "Forgive me, Milord!"

The man released him and returned to his double chair at the bar without a sound. Mytho gasped for air and spat out the wine pooling on the table when it tried to enter his nostrils. The room swirled worse than it did his first night of drinking aboard a ship, and his throat clenched at the rising burn before it reached his mouth.

"I suppose even your pride has its limits," the Pale Hangman deadpanned. "Press you until you crack? It doesn't matter. Are you prepared to listen to what I have to say, Florentius?"

 _Smug bastard. He's flaunting that he knows it._ "Please, do go on, Milord," Mytho groaned between careful inhales to prevent himself from passing out.

The Pale Hangman reached into his robes and removed two wrinkled pages. "I'd like you to take a look at these two faces," he said, holding them out in both hands.

Mytho peeled his face from the tabletop, sticky and smelling of fermented grapes and blearily looked at the two pages before him. The one on the left was dominated by the sketched face of a woman, a Breton if he had to guess, but rather thin and angular for one. She had freckled cheeks, light-colored hair, and was pale. An ordinary girl if he ever knew one. The other face was that of a Dunmer's with jagged features and black hair that looked like the smoke plume of an erupting volcano. He had dark eyes, perhaps red or black, and if the wrinkles told his age, then the elf looked to be as old as Nirn itself. Neither of them had he seen before, nor heard of as far as he knew, so he moved down to read the blurred text beneath their faces. He squinted at it until it became clear. Ysadette Ence was the girl's name, but whether that was supposed to sound familiar to him, Mytho wasn't sure, so he moved to the Dunmer's.

Ulpo.

"Only Ulpo?" Mytho asked, coughing up a glob of wine that had gathered in the back of his throat. "No surname or clan allegiance? No Telvanni or Dres or…?"

The Pale Hangman shook his head.

"Redoran?"

"He's not affiliated with any of them," he said. "Not Indoril, either."

Mytho was puzzled. The face of that Dunmer seemed familiar, and yet he couldn't place it. He reached into the furthest memories of hazy faces cataloged in his travels, but somehow, he could do nothing to match him with anything significant. "Then, who is he? A rebel leader? I didn't think that the Dominion had a problem with Dunmeri dissenters considering half of Morrowind is buried in ashes right now."

The Pale Hangman glanced down at the Dunmer's description like the visage moved all on its own. His brow twitched for only half a second. "Yes, the Ministry of Truth's impact and the following eruption of Red Mountain it caused have proved beneficial to the Thalmor in the long run, but no, he isn't counted among any rebellious factions."

That response was slower than the others. _He knows something. Avoiding it._ "What about the girl?" Mytho asked while trying to commit her face to memory. Her features became muddled as he tried, likely because the space between his ears felt fit to burst.

"She lived here, in Anvil, in a small home in the Chapelgate district not that long ago," he droned on. "She was a healer at the Grand Chapel of Dibella for a time despite not being a priestess. That all changed when the Dominion detected a magical anomaly in the area, and she escaped into the wilderness with the Dunmer in tow."

"That tells me nothing about the lass." Mytho took the page in his hand. "What did she do to piss you off?"

"Were you not listening?" he asked. "Much like yourself, she made the grave mistake of angering the Dominion. Thus, I became involved."

"Still dancing around my questions, eh? Are you insinuating that this girl," he jabbed a finger at the picture, "Did something so drastic that you thought it worthy of your time? Are we seeing the same woman? What'd she do? Hand your arse to you on a platter?"

The imposing figure at the bar stood once again and balled his massive, blackened hands into fists. Mytho made a snap decision and gulped down the rest of his questioning.

"All you're entitled to know is that I'm offering you a chance at freedom, Florentius. The gift of life as I see fit, but if you must know something," he grumbled and took the page from Mytho's hand. "This Dunmer," he placed his finger on the face of the elf, "He's important to me."

"How is that, Milord?"

The Pale Hangman's face showed a hint of emotion, a first in their conversation as he drew in another sharp inhale. "He was my teacher a great many years ago, he said. "When I was a boy, in fact. And he was brilliant like none have known in Tamriel since the time of the Dwemer. However," he glared down at the artist's rendition of Ulpo with a shimmer of greed. But something else mingled with it, something softer that Mytho couldn't name. "His mind now teeters on the edge of being lost forever, preventing anyone from being made privy to all that he knows, including myself. For me to allow such a vast source of knowledge and power to fall into ruin would be a misstep you likely couldn't understand."

"You might be surprised what I understand, Milord," Mytho said, "But I'll take a guess and say that this is where you include me in this grand scheme of yours, O Vague One. Am I correct?"

"Indeed. What must be done in preparation to fulfill my oath demands that I don't chase him around the entire Province and beyond. Thus, I want you, Florentius, to bring him to me. Unharmed," he said in a tone one might speak to a child in. "To a place, east of Bruma called Frostcrag Spire. Do you know it?"

"That damn gaudy tower looming over the whole County up there? Absolutely and very well hidden, I might add, Milord. I'd have never known that something was afoot if you hadn't told me so."

"I didn't ask for your opinion on my locational choices, rat. There is no other place this could be done effectively. Now, do you agree to this deal?" he pushed, loathing audible in his emphatic enunciation of the word "rat."

Mytho leaned on his forearms. It was a fanciful idea and probably a dumb one, but he wanted to try his hand at bargaining. "Say I do; what are you offering me in return?"

"The chance of leaving this room alive," he stated, calm as ever, "If you refuse, I will be forced to bring you to justice for your crimes against the Dominion and remove you as a threat to them. However, if you choose to aid me, then I will allow you to go free."

The man at the bar stood up again, his shadow looming over the room.

"Make your decision now, if you would," the Pale Hangman said.

Mytho sank into his chair, biting down a slew of insults that he'd set aside for such an occasion. One choice meant having that monster slap the cuffs back on him and tugging the chain around whenever he pleased. The other was clear enough to him as it was nothing more than a Black Spot presented to feign the illusion of choice where there was none. Not only that, but Mytho had no idea what he intended on doing with that Dunmer nor the consequences of what followed his own success that he was confident he'd find. And what of the girl protecting him? What was he going to do with her? Was that something he could live with?

Mytho knew there wasn't another choice, not if he wanted his final sight to be anything other than the floorboards of the inn. It was humiliating. Out of one jail and tossed into another. "Aye, we have a deal, Milord," he growled. Never before did the notion of being a coward enter his mind, but his agreement meant he was one large enough to rival the Emperor.

"Excellent," the Pale Hangman said, handing the two pages to him. He gathered the scarf and wrapped it around his neck as he stood up. "The pair were last sighted in the woods north of Kvatch. After that, their trail will go cold, but I suggest you begin your search there regardless. Make haste, Florentius. You had best hurry if you want to catch them." He bent over and laughed in Mytho's face, but it was the sort of laugh manifested as expelling extra air from his nose with his teeth locked together in a self-aggrandizing grin. The temptation for Mytho to meet those teeth with his knuckles caused his face to burn differently than it already was.

With nothing left to say, the Pale Hangman and the one following him left The Grinning Slaughterfish, leaving nothing but smashed bottles and wasted wine in their wake.

Mytho picked the glass shards from his face and threw them on the ground then wiped the blood with his shirt. Within a few minutes, he'd been made to look as helpless as a child, and all he did was agree to his demands like a weak-willed patsy. He was disgusted with himself, but even more so with that conniving innkeeper that somehow knew he was coming. How? His escape was nearly flawless, and anyone who knew his face well enough was probably burned to a crisp or pinned to a wall. He approached the bar, hoping that snitch was still around so that he might give him a piece of his mind, but found something that set him more on edge.

Lying on the ground, next to the dual-chairs the large man had claimed, were a few feathers. Mytho, with trembling hands, reached down and took one between his fingers if only to prove to himself that it was real and not a mirage made up by his pulsating head. It tickled his fingers and fluttered as he swished it back and forth. He should have known.

That large man was no man at all.

Mytho stumbled out into the night air, feeling suddenly lightheaded in the oppressive tavern he thought would relax him. With the new threat looming over his head, pleasure seemed like a distant dream, but he couldn't let that misfortune distract him. He needed to prepare himself for the journey.

Anvil had one secret behind its walls that not even that maniacal bastard knew about, but the person protecting it was arguably the bigger secret. Not that she was aware of it. It was a secret Mytho fought to harder to keep than his own name and one infinitely more important. Had he known, the Pale Hangman would have spoken of it and used it as leverage, but his lacking mention of it assured Mytho that it was still well-kept, erasing the horrifying image of him knocking at her door late at night. An idyllic scenario would let him stay far away as he'd been attempting to do and, with any luck, it would one day go to the grave with him.

Misfortune or a spiteful work of the Lady of Luck would have it that his hand be forced, though. Cruel as ever, she was, and as much as he wanted to conquer this alone, he was aware that his chances of success were staggeringly low in that course of action. Mytho began to follow the boardwalk towards the city gates. _Discomfort sounds like a better alternative to death,_ he thought.

How long had it been since he'd left, actually? Years passed, he was sure of that, but ashamedly he lost count. It was definitely more than three, but it wasn't possible it had been more than nine. He would find out from her, surely. "Excuse me, lad!" Mytho called out to a passing Bosmer, "Does a woman named Aressia live in this town?"

The Wood Elf nodded and made no effort to hide the wince at the open wounds on Mytho's face. "The one that owns the jewelry store, you mean?" he asked. "She does. On the other side of the city, actually. But what do you want with her? Who are you?"

Mytho shook the Wood Elf's hands. He didn't need any more information other than a confirmation to find her. "Thank you, kind sir, and I'm a courier. I have a message for her," he spattered a lie and ran off into the night. That Wood-Elf didn't need a reason to gossip about her, nor would Mytho be the one to supply it. _I hope the lass is still a night-owl._


	6. Promises to Break

6

.~~~.

Mytho didn't like what he was doing, especially since he'd been trying his best to distance himself from her. Gods knew the last thing she needed was the Penitus Oculatus investigating her. If they found one piece – even something insignificant – it was likely she wouldn't come out of their investigation in one piece. It'd ruin whatever reputation she'd built if they didn't outright jail her. In fact, it'd be a damn shame if they dragged her name through the mud. The house he'd arrived at if it was hers, was rather lovely. Two floors, a balcony, decently large, pushed away from the other townhouses for the added privacy and, if he had to guess, a cellar to hide any unscrupulous secrets. She'd done well for herself in the time he'd been gone, and Mytho was proud of her.

The only way she could've made him prouder is if she'd opened the damned door the first three times he knocked. The longer he stood out there, the higher his chances of being caught by the guards. Mytho believed himself to be a smooth talker, but his silver tongue only seemed to work when he appeared well-kept. Trying to explain why he was pounding on someone's door an hour past midnight with blood on his face didn't seem like any way to reassure his innocence.

Mytho paced back and forth, running his hands through his hair, imagining figures where there were none. Still, her door remained shut tight. _Damn it, Aressia_ , he thought. With the amount of time it was taking her to reach the door, a ruffian with ill intentions for her could have forced his way in, and then where would she be?

He sneaked around to the side of the home and began to feel around in the dark for a window latch. Climbing on the balcony was certainly an option, but scaling a two-story building was too daring for a break-in that could yield very little in reward. His fingers bumped against a metal object, and for the first time since arriving at the tavern, he felt as if something had gone his way. She would have it locked, of course, but that was nothing he couldn't handle since it was probably locked with a technique she learned from him. With a few quick motions and a bit of excessive force, the seal cracked, and he opened the window. Hands holding the top of the awning, he leaped into the air and swung into the house with a soft whoosh.

It was pitch black inside and silent as he expected. He hoped it was her home. Otherwise, he'd have to flee and try another building in half an hour when the town went back to sleep.

Mytho took a step forward. From behind, someone prodded at the nape of his neck with the pointed end of a dagger. It was her. She hadn't lost her touch, either. "Easy, lass, easy," Mytho said, raising his hands, "It's me."

"Me who?" she hissed, her voice deadly serious and devoid of fear. There was a difference in her tone, somehow. She poked him again with the knife, seconds from drawing blood.

"Florentius," he said.

The dagger pulled back slowly, almost as if it were skeptical as well. There was a pause where she drew in a sharp breath, the soft sound of her footsteps moving backward. "By Sithis!" she gasped, "Florentius? Is it really you?" She struck a match, filling the room with dim light. First, her eyes came into view, dull green like dying grass, then the red-orange of her hair followed.

Mytho grinned, tasting a drop of blood that had run down from one of the cuts on his forehead.

Aressia's eyes widened as she looked up and down him. "What happened to you?" she asked, reaching out to touch his face. She winced even if it wasn't her that felt the sting of moving bottle remains in her skin. "Come, sit down," she said, leading him across the room and sitting him down in a chair. She tossed the match into the hearth, the logs inside catching fire and lighting up what Mytho soon learned was the foyer.

He sighed and rubbed his heavy eyelids. "It's a bit of a long story, Aressia," he said, hoping she would leave it be.

Aressia entered another room in a rush, her footsteps silent as ever. "I'll say! It's been six years! Where…" she trailed off, an emphatic grunt breaking in during the silence. "Where on Nirn have you been?"

Mytho slumped in his chair. He had his answer. Six damned years had passed in the blink of an eye. "Listen, Aressia, I came here to see if you still had my belongings," he said. "If you still have it all, then just let me collect and I'll – "

She dabbed a moist cloth against his skin. "Be quiet for a second," Aressia said, picking at his wounds. "Is this a piece of glass? And what are these marks? They look like claws!"

"If you'd stop for a moment – "

"There are plenty of capable healers in the Chapel, Florentius," Aressia said. "They're open at any hour, including the dead of night. You should have gone there. They'd be able to help you much more than I – "

"Aressia!" Mytho shouted louder than he meant to.

She stepped back with the cloth held close to her chest, eyes narrowed at him.

Mytho took one long, deep breath and released it slowly until he was calm once again. Shouting at her was going to win him no favors and only increased the chances that she would toss him back onto the street where he belonged. "Aressia, believe me when I say that this is the one job that you do not want to…" he trailed off.

He wanted to begin his long-winded reason that she end her interrogation, but stopped short when he was able to see her clearly for the first time since breaking and entering. She was different, that was obvious, her face was a tad different than he remembered, but the most apparent reason made him feel even worse for showing up at her door so late at night. Mytho hunched over and placed his hands on the only part of his face that did not hurt. At first, he wanted to believe it was her gown, but it billowed out too far to merely be ill-fitting. He had been gone for a long time, a very long time. "Dammit. I'm so sorry."

Aressia laid one hand on the curve of her belly, head cocked to one side with a playful grin on her face. "I'm surprised it took you this long to notice. Did any of that glass get in your eyes?"

It was with a harmless joke that Mytho began to realize how long six years actually is and how much a person – especially someone of her age – could change in that time. Not much was different in his life, and a part of him thoughtlessly assumed the same was true for her. Somehow, the taste of actuality that he received after seeing her made him dizzy and turned his stomach. For so long, he was going out on numerous adventures to occupy himself and chasing far too many rumors to even think about the life she was apparently making for herself. One that he, on a whim, decided to barge into without even considering that she may not have been the same girl he knew then. Mytho stood to his feet. "I'm sorry, Aressia. I'm so sorry," he said, sighing as he started towards the window. "You don't need to be involved in this. I'll see myself out."

"Stop," Aressia said and circled around him to block his path. "You break into _my_ home in the middle of the night and make me believe I'm being robbed," she emphasized by jabbing his chest with her index finger, "Ask for _my_ help while looking like you lost a battle with a damn mountain lion," she pushed him back towards the chair again, "Act as if it's been but a week since you last visited me, then up and leave without any explanation or even asking how I've been as soon as you find out I'm pregnant?"

Mytho fell back down into the chair and scrunched up his nose. "Aye, if you'd step out of the way, I'd be able to do each of those things, including the last."

Aressia eased into the one beside him and let out a fatigued groan. She rubbed the top of her cheeks, then up to her eyes and forehead. "I'm sure you would, but no. I might've allowed that if you'd come in the day but not at night when I was just getting to sleep. You owe me an explanation. I won't ask again what you've been doing for all these years because I feel as if I already know the answer, but I do want to hear what brought you here tonight. Start talking."

Mytho frowned, knowing that it was one fight he had not a chance in Oblivion of winning. Begrudgingly, he began his story. "Have you heard of Count Sabicus Gregol?"

"The Count of Kvatch?" she said. "Yes. He was the one that was arrested by the Dominion on charges of permitting heresy in his city, wasn't he?"

"You still have your ear to the ground, eh? Lovely. Then in the next few days, you'll be hearing plenty of stories about my most recent job," he began.

Mytho told her how he was approached by the Countess late one night and how she begged that he rescue the Count from the Thalmor's prison. From there, he allowed the Thalmor to arrest him on charges that merited being locked away and not outright executed to give him a chance to plot his escape. Then came the day he made them all look like the haughty fools they were and managed to get his new employer on his trail, leading them to the present moment when he let himself into her home without her permission.

Throughout it all, though, he felt even more guilty about dragging her back into the fray as he took note of the look she had in her eyes. It was the same as when he met her many years ago; cunning, perceptive, and devious. Much to his dismay.

"You have gotten yourself in a fine mess, haven't you?" Aressia said with her gaze locked on the flickering fire. She raised from the chair and put a bit more fuel into it to keep it burning long through the night. "I'd call you the world's most idiotic man if you weren't used to it by now."

Mytho soured at that. "I know," he said bitterly. He expected her to rub it in, her voice a mockery of his own, but she remained silent as it lost in thought.

Her lips turned upward into a meaningless smile. "At least now I understand why you came to me. And you're sure it was…"

Mytho nodded and cut her off before she could say the name. "Aye, it was him for sure. The scars on his neck lined with runes," he said, tracing a line across his own, "Pale as a ghost. Elven. The enormous, er, thing acting on his behalf like they shared a mind. All of it points to one man."

Aressia placed her hand over her belly protectively and swallowed hard. "A-and this Dark Elf he's after," she stammered, "Did he say who he was?"

"Besides the old man was once his teacher?" Mytho said. "Nothing, but he knows more. He's guarding whatever that it, however. If he wanted a rebel leader or a heretic, he'd have given me more than a name to go on. But that's it. Not even a Great House allegiance, either."

"Then it must be something that would complicate things if word got out," Aressia said. "I'd place my bets on not learning anything until it's all over with. But that woman he mentioned? Ysadette? She lived in this city."

Mytho wagged one finger in the air. "He did tell me that much. Did you know her?"

Aressia shrugged her shoulders. "Not personally. Did a bit of business with a man she was rather close with, however. What I could gather from her reputation said she was the type to have her mind on other things."

"Empty-headed?"

"Smart as a whip," Aressia stated. "Would've been in the Mage's Guild if it were still around and maybe one of their brightest students. If you're going after her, I'd keep an eye on her more than the old man. She's a dangerous one, and she isn't mad like he is. Even you would have trouble getting anything by her and, as the rumors say, she might've been at the heart of that strange magic in town a while ago."

"He mentioned that as well," Mytho said.

"It'd make sense. Right after that, she packed up and left with the old fool like something was chasing her," Aressia said. "I guess she wasn't jumping at shadows like I assumed," she hummed, "But that, unfortunately, is everything I know about either of them. I apologize if that isn't much to go on."

A student of the arcane and an elf as old as the dirt possessing a kind of knowledge to be coveted by powerful people. The two went hand-in-hand, he'd admit that. Intuition pushed him to believe that maybe the girl protecting him knew what it was his employer refrained from telling as well. "No, that's more than I knew before. Thank you," he said with a bow of his head. Mytho let his shoulders droop as he felt the mounting need to reiterate what he already told her. "Aressia, if you'd rather not be involved with this, with me, then you don't need to worry about it. You can forget about all we've discussed, and I'll go right this moment if you wish. You won't offend me, whatever your decision."

"Oh, stop that," Aressia said. "With the way you showed up tonight, I don't believe I'm capable of turning you down."

Confliction was what chased the tail of that statement. She wanted to help after all. His mind couldn't decide whether to cheer or curse, so his gaping mouth made the choice instead. "Shall we get started, then?"

Aressia smiled mischievously and pushed off from the mantle above the fire. "I think you'll be proud of me for this. Come along." She leaned over and picked up a lantern and lit it with the already burning fire. With one hand, she unlocked the door underneath the stairs leading to the second floor and pushed it open, revealing another set of stairs leading down below the house.

"Ah, I was correct then. You do have a cellar," Mytho observed and strode to her left side.

Aressia shot him a nasty look. "Please don't case my home," she demanded after they started down the curling steps. One hand lingered at the base of her neck, and her eyes rolled to her right, lips a lop-sided smirk. "I, er, nearly sold everything off recently."

"It's good that you didn't, but I suppose all I would need to do is find the buyer if you did."

Aressia simpered and tilted her head to one side. "Wouldn't that have been fun?"

"You have a bizarre idea of fun, lass."

Deeper into the cellar she led him, around a curving hallway and into the large room at the other end of it. The basement was a dull, brown box made of carved stone and filled to the brim with nearly worthless junk, precisely like the crates packed in the locations Mytho allowed himself to sift through, actually. It was boringly conventional, even to his experienced eye. Furniture that looked as old as the home itself, coated in a thick layer of dust, was tossed about the room without the slightest amount of organization, making the cluttered cellar look even derelict.

"Push that wardrobe out of the way," Aressia said and pointed to one missing two drawers and a door.

As Mytho shoved the aged fixture out of the way, she set the lantern down and reached her arm behind a stack of oak wood planks and began to fiddle with something out of view. The sound of a jingling chain filled the room, followed by a loud thumping. In the same place he pushed the wardrobe from, the wall cracked open and swung outwards at a snail's pace, groaning loudly.

Mytho was impressed. Even he hadn't seen the lines on the wall until the door split away and revealed the falsehood. "I see you still have a penchant for hidden passageways and underground hideouts."

Aressia picked the lantern up once more and passed it to him. "Some habits never die, I suppose."

"Does the man of the house know about this?" Mytho asked as they stood looking into the void before them.

"Tobias, you mean?" she asked. A line appeared on her forehead. "No, and he never will if I can help it. Count yourself lucky he's on his way to Skingrad as well, else you'd be dealing with him instead of me." Aressia motioned for him to follow her into the hidden room.

He supposed he shouldn't have been surprised. She'd never been the type to open up and be read like a book.

Mytho spun around with the lantern held high so he could see every inch of the room that only they knew of. Something about secret passages always captivated him. "If only the poor lad knew he wed one of the Dark Brotherhood's last assassins in all of Tamriel," he muttered as they approached the end of the room.

"Former assassin, you mean. You have given me an idea, though. Perhaps he would stop worrying about me knowing I was born into the deadliest band of murderers in history," she said with a dismissive gesture. "Then again, with the Penitus Oculatus executing any of us they find that may cause him to never let me out of his sight." Aressia reached for another pull-chain in the corner of the room and gave it a tug. The back wall rotated as the first one they entered did moments before, revealing the assortment of equipment hidden on the other side. "As if I'm some dainty flower he needs to keep safe," she chattered in a flattened voice.

Mytho approached and looked at every inch of the blades and armor for damages caused by being abandoned by their owner and was pleased to note they were just as he left them; pristine.

"I've tried to keep the leather from drying out and the blades from becoming dull, but I can only do so much without being caught down here," Aressia explained, one hand stuck firmly to her forehead and displacing her hair. "Tobias is already convinced the basement is haunted. Again. So I can't spend too much time without making him suspicious."

Mytho began to drift away from the conversation as he took the left blade down from its rack. It was heavier than an ordinary sword, enough to put most men off-balance if they dared to use it, and most importantly, heavy enough to add much-needed lethality to his swings. Brutality was the only solution for dangerous men and feral animals. The right blade was much lighter in comparison and a hand shorter yet forged with the strength to take many clashes without fail. Both had a slight curve to them, and a single sharpened edge like the blades Mytho's father owned, the very same he learned to fight with.

As he held them in both hands, he reminisced sashaying around the battlefield in a deadly twirl. It always succeeded in putting his enemies at a disadvantage, as none knew how to approach a man slicing in every direction at once with his feet hardly touching the ground. It was a sort of trickery he developed and honed while at sea, as one can only wish for balance while two dozen others are clashing around you, the cannons are firing to one side, and the waves are taller than the sails. A natural sway and spin was his best chance at keeping his head attached, he found. Everything together cost every Septim he made in almost a decade of thievery, but it was worth it. "They're still as perfect as the day they were forged."

"I'm glad. Now, see if that still fits," she said and gestured to the armor hanging in the middle of the wall.

"Are you trying to say that I'm not as lean as I was?" He said as he slid one arm through to the end and wiggled his hand on the other side. Once he had both arms out, he straightened it on his back and buckled the blades at his hips.

"No, but it looks a little tighter in the shoulders to me. Maybe it'll loosen if you wear it for a bit," Aressia said as she traced her eyes over him. She looked down and exhaled a long breath. "You still look the part of the swashbuckler I remember."

"Like old times, eh?" he asked.

Her mouth curved into a wistful smile. "Takes you back, doesn't it? I almost wish I hadn't buried my armor. We could go roaming across the countryside like we used to." Aressia pressed her hands flat on her belly. "Er, I suppose this would present a problem, as well, wouldn't it?"

"Aye, a bit," Mytho said as he rolled his shoulders forward to adjust the coat to his liking. "Those were some exciting times when I found you, weren't they? I only wanted to pull a heist at the County Hall, but every damn scheme I tried fell apart on me."

"And then you started making too much of a commotion…"

"And then Captain Manio declared to the whole city that he would catch me red-handed and unmask me…"

"Then the next day, he found himself dangling from a rooftop clad in nothing but his skivvies in the middle of Morning Star…" she started to laugh, one hand lifted to her face to try and contain it.

"Finally, I walked out of the Countesses chambers with more gold in my pockets than poor Manio made in a year!"

Aressia sputtered and unleashed the laughter she was holding back, her face turning cherry red.

"Then things got very out of hand with the Captain of the Guards made to look helpless!" Mytho chortled, "Warring skooma gangs proved to be quite the lively bunch when they believed their property was at stake, didn't they?"

Wrong. He regretted saying those words moments later when he heard the laughing stop and felt the atmosphere in the little room change. He sheepishly looked at Aressia, and his heart sank.

Her eyes were cast down, squinted, and her face was turned slightly towards her shoulder, something he learned years ago meant she was tossing around a great number of thoughts in her head. She didn't emote any negative feelings towards him at least, but the forlornity that he watched being pushed to the surface and making itself known in her expression still made his chest ache. "Forgive me, I wasn't…"

Aressia shook her head and pushed her eyebrows together. "No, it's not an issue. I know what you meant," she downplayed, but Mytho could hear the change in her voice as she continued. "I-It's not like the dead can hurt you anyway," she shrugged stiffly. "The last I heard of the Dark Brotherhood in Cyrodiil was that everyone in the Cheydinhal Sanctuary had been killed, meaning the only members left are those that may still be hidden in the Falkreath Sanctuary. Maybe there are more of them out there somewhere, but if they're smart, they won't be found by anyone. Not even a former member."

Mytho placed his hand on her shoulder gently. He needed to say something that would alleviate her sorrow, but he knew nothing of the sort. "Do you ever think about them?" he asked after she paused for an uncomfortably long time.

"How could I not?" she asked but gave him no time to respond. "They were my family, my entire life before you came along and took me in. It's like being homesick even if I understand how much better off I am without them. I'm happy now, but you know something? I used to see them every night in my dreams, but now I…"

Aressia paused and held the bottom of her lips between her fingers as she seemed to be at a loss. "I have trouble remembering some of their faces," she whispered as if being choked by guilt. "It's been too long to continue dwelling on their deaths, though, hasn't it?"

Aressia gave Mytho a look that he had no idea how to respond to, so he wrapped his fingers around the hilts of his blades. "It might be, aye," he stated out loud although he intended on keeping that inside his mind. If his memory served him correctly, it had been eleven years since then. Since Bravil burned to the ground. A search for a few gray hairs nearly took his hands from his blades, but he knew that if reached up to his head to search for one to pluck he would return with more than he wanted to acknowledge.

She was young when she came into his life - just shy of thirteen - and far too young to die on that battlefield as another casualty of a skirmish she had no personal stake in. The situation worsened when the Sanctuary turned on itself and left her with nowhere to go.

Nowhere, except with him.

Memories of their days spent together echoed in the gaps between thoughts and reminded him that in what seemed to be no time at all, the girl he found bleeding out in that murky canal had disappeared, along with the years he spent chasing whatever the breeze carried. In her place was a woman, a soon-to-be mother, and he hardly recognized her anymore. Having her there at his side again filled a devastating void that was opened after his departure. It was as if he closed his eyes and listened to her speak, he could dream that he never missed a moment, that they were still roaming from town to town without a care in the world, or that he was still trying his damnedest to show her what a normal family was like. But when he opened them, the image of her in the present shattered the illusion and broke his heart all over again.

Gods bless her. After all she went through, she deserved a better role model than him.

Tradition dictated that he be ecstatic for her and all the wonderful things in her life without him, but his selfishness said the extreme opposite. It wasn't because she changed, not at all. It was because he wasn't there for it.

"I'm sorry, Aressia, for being absent from, well, damn near everything," he floundered, finding that words were failing him.

He expected a jest at his expense, goofy face and mocking voice included, but she surprised him yet again and offered him a tender look. "Still on about that? Please, let it go. I'm not angry, Florentius, not anymore," Aressia said.

"You were, then?" he asked, wincing and hoping that she would be kind enough to lie to him.

"For a time, I was. I was angry because I believed that after giving me a chance at living life as I saw fit you wanted nothing to do with me," she explained, voice soft and soothing to his ear in ironic contradiction to what she was telling him.

His chest felt as if it were ready to burst as her words pierced deeper into him than he wanted anything to ever do again. It violated him, and Mytho wanted her to laugh and then reveal it was a ruse, but the punchline to that punishing joke never arrived.

Aressia started towards the door again, beckoning him to follow if he wanted to speak more. They closed each false wall behind them and returned the furniture to the proper positions to hide the faint lines that would give them away, then retraced their steps in the cellar to reach the stairs leading into the first-floor room where the fire was still burning brightly.

The silence following the revelation was what stung the most. Mytho wanted to tell her countless stories about what he'd done in his absence, perhaps he could see those grassy colored eyes glitter in excitement like they used to and bury all the hurt that his reappearance visibly unearthed in her, as if that was realistic in any sense of the word. His first choice would have been marginally romanticized stories about breaking himself out of each and every prison he found himself in and disappearing with a note left behind on the other side of his cell door to taunt the inattentive jailers. She loved those kinds of stories years prior because they were, as she said, "like fairytales, but not made up for the sake of boring children to sleep."

But those were the old stories. Not the newer entries in the tale that was his life. All he heard from her as they ascended back into the house were intermittent huffs and involuntary moans while he made no effort to make any sound other than that of the heels on his boots hitting stone.

Doubts deserving loathe made him wonder if she had moved on from more than the Dark Brotherhood.

Aressia, without wasting a second, made her way to the chair and sank into it once again. "Much better," she groaned and wiggled her feet. Seeing a moment to rest, she laid her head back for a moment and let her eyes drift shut.

Mytho couldn't bring himself to sit down, not next to this girl he'd begun to believe he knew nothing about anymore. It made him feel too much like a guest in a stranger's home, and he wasn't even sure if he was welcome anymore. His anxiously twitching fingers seemed like they were as loud as a crack of thunder, and he tried not to draw any attention to himself lest she notice that he was distressed. A simple unwanted action such as that may be the last thing to shatter whatever impressive image she still had of him. "What changed?" he asked.

Aressia lazily opened one eye, "Hm? Did you say something?"

"What changed your mind? If you were angry with me, why did you stop?" he asked again, wishing he could tear his own mouth off and throw it out the window.

She lifted her head again and looked right at him. "Perhaps I understood how unreasonable it was for me to ask you to stay," she said. "You lived your way of life the way you always did and for me to ask you to change it all for my sake was nothing but selfishness."

"I would have…" he muttered quiet enough that she could not hear him over the logs snapping in the heat of the flames. He was no different than the cutthroats that left her to die in the chaos; a toxin that threatened her chances at living a future worth seeing. There was no point in arguing with that, but at least he cared. Probably more than she realized. Earnest sentiments mattered very little when they were not acted upon, though, and kind words fell dead when not spoken out loud, much to his dreaded expectations.

Aressia stood cautiously from the chair and stretched her back, teeth gritted and face drawn into a tight grimace. "It's rather late, Florentius, and I'm feeling absolutely drained. I'm going back to bed. If you want, you can stay here for the night. I imagine you've had your fill of inns for now."

Mytho nodded dumbly as she left. "Aye," he said while his mind fought to even formulate that simple word due to being overworked. Watching her go drove him to the edge of speaking all that needed to be said, but instead, he settled for a pointless farewell that wasted time and air. "Sleep tight, Aressia. Don't let the chauruses bite."

She chuckled and started the climb up yet another set of stairs. Around halfway, she stopped her ascension and looked down at him, lips drawn into a perfectly straight line. Seconds were like minutes, and Mytho tensed in anticipation for a curse to escape from her, for her to shout angrily at him to leave and for him to never come back into her life, but Aressia said nothing. Her expression said nothing. There was nothing exchanged between them but more unpleasant silence until the final sound she made for the rest of the night was shutting the door to her bedroom.

Mytho slouched into the chair when he was sure he was alone and stared into the curling flames. He knew very well that he was not going to sleep the entire night.

.~~~.

Aressia flinched when she felt a flutter below her ribs. It was lively enough that it would have awakened her if she were asleep but the closest she came to that all night was squeezing her eyes shut for extended lengths of time and hoping the stampede of thoughts wreaking havoc in her mind would tire themselves out. Thick bars of golden sunlight peeked between the shutters more than an hour ago to solidify the fact that she spent the whole night leaping at every creak of the house in hopes that it was Florentius coming to talk some more.

He never did. For a long while, she could hear him clear his throat irregularly, but the sound of his knuckles drumming the beat to Ragnar the Red never disturbed her. Aressia wanted to be angry with him, and she had every right to be. The way his face looked as she stood atop the stairs the night before, however, told her that venting at him would be twisting the knife already plunged in his spirit. It suited him poorly to look so at a loss even if it was his choice to leave in the first place. Florentius meant well for her, as he always did, but leaping back into her life after disappearing one morning without a goodbye, a "take care of yourself," or sending as little as a damned letter made her want to hit him right in that elongated nose of his.

Aressia worked up the courage to sit on the edge of her bed. But it wasn't enough to push herself to her feet and march down there to see if he was still sitting in front of the fire. Numerous words turned stale in her mouth, all ones that she wished she told him hours ago so that maybe he would stay, and still, Aressia asked why she, the victim of the situation, needed to apologize. She was completely innocent, which she came to understand after mournfully blaming herself for several years after his ghostlike vanishing, but a small, self-hating piece in her almost wanted to claim that as the reason why he left. That she deserved it. Then, at least, she could understand him for who he truly was and not as the idealized drifter she was taken in by when she was young.

Finding the truth added another tingle of anxiety that Aressia knew she had no use for. Was she nothing more than a comrade to him in all the time they spent together? The Dark Brotherhood treated her like a means to an end, but she never expected Florentius to do that as well. Or was it payback for being so difficult in the past? She was cold as a northern winter's morning for the first month after he rescued her, but it didn't take long for their bond to deepen and he began to treat her how she imagined a family that cared about her beyond what she was capable of doing for them would. Those memories were among her most cherished.

Aressia grimly laughed to herself. He was awful at it, though. Florentius was the type that if gods forbid he ever had a child of his own, would run about the countryside with them strapped to his back, cutting down beasts and bandits, and take them to see grand vistas they wouldn't appreciate when they cried. He would never understand that the only thing they wanted was to be held and not simply carried. The man had his moments where he showed a bit of promise, though. Such as the nights he fed her and insisted he saved some for himself only for Aressia to hear his stomach roaring until the next morning when he would try to convince her it must have been a wolf prowling around. Or when he never got angry with her for failing but instead told her that perfection was dull. It was messing up was that made things interesting, he had told her. Or when he asked her what she wanted to do with her life.

Therein lied the problem, she presumed. He asked her what she wanted when she was young and had no idea, but not now, not when she felt as if she knew. Aressia wasn't blind to the complicated situation he was in, though. Florentius had run afoul of people she barely believed existed, and he was under their thumb now. Explaining it to Tobias in a way he would understand and one day her baby – which she was oddly confident would be a girl – was a complexity she wanted to pretend didn't exist as well. Ah, but she could bring them around eventually. She had to. Florentius couldn't stay with her at the time, but perhaps later he could, and she was wasting time sitting on her ass, or "arse," as he would say it, waiting for him to speak up. Whispers of negativity told her that it was far more likely that the answer was no, but she had to try.

At last, a spark of bravery brought on by another tumble inside her pushed her to stand up, subsequently reminding her that every point on her body had a way of surprising her with fresh aches. Aressia made a quiet resolve to not let that stop her as she headed for the door leading down to the foyer. When her hand touched the doorknob, she noticed it was shaking as it did during the first assassination she was sent on when she was a child.

It was fear – potent terror that cast a shadow longer than it deserved – no point in denying it. Her heart was fluttering, her skin turning cold, and she couldn't keep herself from feeling nauseated, but it wasn't a target to stab in the throat she hoped to find lurking behind that door.

It was her father. That was what she liked to tell herself he was to her, anyway. What her limited imagination insisted one would be like. It was what she wished she could tell him without nearly becoming a blubbering mess at the thought of it and the excuse she would give Tobias if Florentius ever popped his head in when he was around. It wouldn't calm the man down, and she didn't expect it to, but a partial lie was the best way to nudge him towards being open to the raw truth of her old life.

Aressia hardened her face as she strained to do last night until her cheeks were weary and turned the knob. A few paces down the stairs allowed her to see that Florentius was not sitting in front of the fire, hands wrestling each other in a war of attrition. Smoldering embers still fought for life in the fireplace, evidence that he was there recently.

"Florentius? Are you still here?" she called out only to have a ringing silence answer her. She thought for a moment to listen for movement but remembered that would also yield silence from him. She entered the foyer and turned her head, looking about the room. Aressia checked the window he entered into to see that he fixed the once broken lock so that the only person other than himself that knew anything happened to it was her. Nothing was out of place, and in fact, it looked a bit cleaner than she remembered. A new source of purple drew her attention to the table in front of the hearth. Inside a flagon was a half-wilted Nightshade flower and lying next to that was a folded parchment and an odd colored feather still wet with ink.

Her heart dropped when she opened it and read the first line. Was it supposed to make her feel better or break her apart further? She wanted to crumple it into an insignificant ball or tear the letter to pieces and toss it into the hearth. Aressia soon found that all she could do was let the tears streak down her face, gather and fall from her chin as she read it until she could recite infuriating word by crushing word from memory.

.~~~.

 _My Beloved Aressia,_

 _I know that this may not come as a shock to you anymore, but I have decided to depart before you wake up without a goodbye. Perhaps it is another misstep, but I believed it would be easier for both of us if I were to leave this way yet again. There are a great many days in my life I wish I could go back and do over, but one that I would not do any different for all the riches in the world was the one when I pulled you out of the canal in Bravil. You were and still are family to me. I understand now that I was wrong to ever try and run from that. But worry not, for once this is over and I am free again, my running days will end for good and I will come back to you so I can make right all that I have wronged. This I swear, and if I fail, may the Eight deny me peace in death and instead damn me to wander the planes of Oblivion in torment for eternity as atonement for my falsehoods._

 _With love, The World's Most Idiotic Man._


	7. Telling Eyes and Apple Pie

7

.~~~.

A dreamy nighttime sky, deep blue and splattered with red and green swirling around the twin moons, Masser and Secunda, glittered back at Ysadette while she gazed from the window. Her mother tucked her into bed hours ago after she asked too many questions.

Again.

But what her mother didn't know was that simply placing her in a bed and saying goodnight did nothing to stop Ysadette's mind from buzzing.

Ysadette rolled over, buried her chin in her arms and pouted. She wasn't even tired, so why was it that she was tossed into her room? Why couldn't she decide for herself? She was old enough - she would be five years old in a few months – that she stop being treated like a child. Regardless of the reason, she kicked the blanket, tucked underneath the corners at the other end, and dropped carefully on the floor. She took a careful step forward and jumped in the air when she heard the floor creak. Fearful that her mother had heard the noise, she almost scrambled back into her bed and pretended to be asleep. However, Ysa steeled herself and marched towards the doorway, intent on showing her mother that she was indeed capable of deciding for herself.

With a leap that required all her strength, she reached upwards for the doorknob, catching it with both hands, to her surprise. On the tips of her toes, Ysadette turned the knob back and forth until she heard the click of the latch being freed, then yanked it back to reveal the shadowy hallway that awaited on the other side. She grinned wide and pushed her fists into her sides, prideful in her resounding success.

Ysa started down the hall. A thumping sounded in the darkness around her, bringing her to a halt. It was distant, like the sound the town mages produced when they practiced fireballs in the canyon just outside of town. "Mama?" she called out, afraid her escape was coming to an end already. A few more steps elicited another bump in the dark, one that made her skin crawl because of how loud it was. The distance between her and the sound was quickly shortened, but that was not her primary concern. Her mother was never that loud, and no one else lived with them. Was there someone in the house? Ysadette looked over her shoulder at her bedroom and began to think it best to return before she found herself in trouble. No. No, that was too cowardly. She balled her fists and stomped onward, eyes shut tight and face pointed directly at the floor. One door remained, and she would be in the entrance hall of their home. She repeated as she had done earlier, but before she could open the door, something the length of an arm tickled the back of Ysadette's neck. With a scream, she pushed the door open and fell into the next room, head covered in her hands.

"Mama! There's a monster after me!" she cried and opened her eyes to hopefully see her mother running to her. She'd make everything better, but she was nowhere to be found. The beating grew louder, becoming deafening. Ysadette clawed the planks and clambered to her feet, eyes locked on the dark behind her. She needed to run. Fast. Something was chasing her. Why would it want her of all people? She looked ahead when another earsplitting boom sounded.

Another set of eyes looked back at her, blinking lethargically as a voice hummed a gentle tune.

.~~~.

Ysadette sat up with flames already flickering to life in her palms, her skin covered in goosebumps and a cold sweat coating her face. Her eyes darted around the room at every shadow until she saw that no one else was there, save for Ulpo who was still snoring loudly and muttering incoherently in his sleep. Seeing that set her at ease somewhat, but knowing they were still in an abandoned shack prevented her from relaxing entirely.

She rubbed her forehead and felt a chill run up and down the whole of her spine. _Paranoia is getting to me,_ she thought while she imagined the murky, olive eyes of her dreams peering at her just beyond her own vision. They were manifestations of her worried psyche that barely had the time to properly reorient itself and nothing more, she tried to assure her racing mind. Fitting that eyes appeared when they were the very things that held power to save or damn them both if the mouth underneath had no restraint. Pondering the possibility that anyone and everyone was aware of their identity was unreasonable, however, and that sort of obsessive behavior would only push her to make irrational decisions that would endanger them both. She didn't need any help in that endeavor.

Ysadette stood to her feet to, a touch of dizziness lazily washing over her as she approached Ulpo who was curled into a tight ball underneath that filthy bed. She poked his back and was greeted by a riotous snore. "Mentor, time to wake up," she whispered before succumbing to an extended yawn. "We must be on our way."

Ulpo uncurled and rolled out from underneath the bed. He spread his hands out and stopped short. "Ah-ha!" he shouted triumphantly, holding himself inches from the ground, limbs a vague resemblance of a crab. "At last, I have fooled you!"

"How so?"

"I wasn't dancing! Not even you could've guessed that!"

More insane ramblings, but a kind she heard before. Whatever dance he liked to tell her about was never clarified in practice, but Ysadette found it laughable that she allowed herself to contemplate what it looked like. Knowing his off-kilter vocabulary, Ulpo may have meant something entirely different she never had a chance of visualizing. "Yes, Mentor. You have done it at last. You've fooled me."

Ulpo looked at her, his eyes wide-open as he shook his head. "Silly girl! I'm not talking about you! I fooled that idiot in the gaudy clothing! He believed I would dance with him, play his silly games, but I only moved my body rhythmically to his horrible, terrible music, d'oh yes!"

And just like that, she was confused all over again. His description sounded much like dancing, but was not? Then what in Oblivion did moving one's body rhythmically, but not dancing, look like? Regardless, the pressing matter was to pursue the identity of that man in his dreams. "Er, who is it that wanted you to dance and play?"

"D'oh, the one in here!" Ulpo tapped his knuckles against the side of his head. "He always wants me to dance with him! Wants to play!" He stood to his feet, hunchbacked as usual. "He thinks he's cleverer than I am, but I showed him, oh yes. He's the fool!"

"But _who_ is he, Mentor?" she pried.

Ulpo's nose wrinkled as if he smelled something foul then crossed his arms and sat cross-legged on the wooden floor once again. "D'oh, my. Who is who?"

 _Curses. Almost had him._ She staggered to her feet, satchel in hand and threw it over her shoulder. Ysa tugged at the strap, one hand lingering at her chin as she tried to piece together what his words meant. Dancing but not dancing, and for the pleasure of a man in gaudy clothing that was not aware of the foolery taking place around him. It was another mystifying contradiction that only Ulpo was capable of creating, and one she had not the time nor the energy to waste unraveling. "Nothing, Mentor. Here, you mustn't forget this," she said, handing him the small, yet overstuffed pack of his own.

Ulpo dug into the bag and removed his fork again to clutch it like any well-prepared traveler should hold their blade. Unhelpful in every possible manner, but at the very least, it would keep him occupied and quieter than usual and allow her to focus until they reached Chorrol.

Ysadette opened the rotted shack door and stepped onto the wet forest floor, Ulpo still muttering to himself but hanging on to the trail of her cloak with his free hand. She stopped for a moment and looked in the direction they had come from the day before, longing to go back and draw out the bandits. They had her necklace, and as replaceable as the item itself was, she would not dare pretend as if she could trick herself into forgetting about the tender sentiments tied to that one specifically. She waved her palm over her eyes, activating her vision spell, then swallowed hard before taking a step in the opposite direction.

Ulpo had to come first, even if…Ysa swallowed the lump in her throat. Even if it meant possibly losing it forever. She would return when he was somewhere safe, and that somewhere was Chorrol.

"Onward, girl! To the horizon!" Ulpo cheered, fork pointed to the nearly cloudless sky. "To grander adventures, d'oh yes!"

She nearly swatted his hand away from her cloak in reaction but caught herself before doing so. Only the Divines knew what he was seeing. They or the one other name that popped into her head whenever she heard his nonsense. With a cough, she started up the hill. "Be careful not to fall behind, Grandfather."

.~~~.

It was a longer and more strenuous walk than she anticipated, but Ysa saw the walls and watchtowers of Chorrol appear only an hour after midday, which she guessed meant they ran further than she thought the day before. She was not about to complain, though, as it meant she would spend less time in that dreadful forest. Several months of wandering through it, sometimes in circles, were enough to revolt her at the sight of more than two trees standing next to each other for the time being.

Ysa squinted her eyes at the two guards waiting outside the front gates, trying to piece together the details of their faces before she approached. One was a nameless Imperial, shamefully lax in his duty by how he leaned against the wall. He also was a person she had no affiliation with, so she turned her attention to the Redguard opposite of him. Thankfully, it was a face that she recognized.

When their eyes met, the man said a few words to his comrade and left his post to meet Ysa on the dirt path before she came within earshot of the other, a hard look on his weather-worn face.

"Damn it all, Ysadette!" he whispered in a manner that better fit to be shouted. "You were supposed to arrive two days ago! Where on Nirn have you been?"

Ysa tugged gently on her cloak to draw Ulpo's attention. "I know, and I apologize, Isro. I thought we were going to arrive sooner, but we ran into a, er, problem along the way."

"With the amount of dirt on you, I should've guessed that. Was it the bandits? They've been a problem recently since that group in the west took up residence in the ruins of Fort Rayles." Isro's gaze fell to his feet, and his already stony face put on a layer of defeat. "Bastards stole a whole caravan's worth of oil barrels a few weeks back, and we've been trying to track them down ever since."

Ysadette shook her head. "Bandits were the least of our troubles, actually."

"And the most?" He raised one eyebrow and cut his eyes back towards the other guard.

She said nothing.

Isro looked blankly at her for a few moments, fingers stroking the stubble on his chin before his expression fell into frustration. "Oh, I see. I saw a patrol the morning of Tirdas heading down the Black Road. I never imagined they would run into you, though. I should've tried to delay them."

Ysa patted him on the arm and began to walk toward the gate. "There was no way for you to know I would meet them, so please, don't blame yourself."

He said nothing in response. When they reached the gate, he nodded at the other guard, who pushed himself off the wall and huffed to convey his displeasure. Together, they worked to open the heavy, iron door, emblazoned with the depiction of a great tree, until the gap was wide enough to pass through.

"Sis is waiting for you at the apothecary," Isro called out, wiping his forehead with his forearm. He and the other guard stepped away from the door and allowed it to begin the process of shutting. "It's in front of the big tree, you won't miss it. I'll be along later," he said, quick and simple, before disappearing behind the gate with a resounding slam.

Ysa exhaled as soon as the door shut behind her. Relief. Doors were not among the most comforting objects she could think of, but the sound of one closing was like a sweet tune played for her pleasure. It had been months since she last set foot in one of the main cities, and it was like regaining a lost piece of societal dignity in spite of the muck covering her head to toe. The scent of the local tavern baking apple pies caused her mouth to water as she imagined the flaky pastry melting on her tongue. Chattering townsfolk in the market on the opposite side of town reminded her that she was among other, less treacherous folk. Shouts and whoops of playing children, engrossed in their innocent games, added a whimsy that pervaded the rest of town. They were all things she never dreamed of being captivated by, but as the silence that the wilderness offered was abruptly replaced with the murmurs of the habitual, it made her realize something pitiful.

In spite of all the daily annoyances entangled in the pleasant aspects, Ysadette missed civilization.

The journey had proven several times over to be more disastrous than she predicted, but at long last, they had taken one step closer to being free. And what a step it was. Ulpo was still gripping the end of her cloak, following wherever it led him like a lost child, but otherwise, he seemed in a relatively normal state. Optimism was not among the things Ysa considered herself to be accustomed to – she thought herself _pragmatic_ \- but she indulged in a sliver of the feeling so the moment of tranquility she found herself in wouldn't be wasted. Many times in the past few days, she began to wearily question if it was worth anything at all. Seeing that they arrived in Chorrol and still in one piece was intensely sobering when she needed it to be most of all.

"Come, Mentor," Ysa tugged at her cloak to gain his attention once more. "We're going to meet a friend of mine. We'll be staying at her home for a few days so we can rest. You'll like her, I'm sure."

Ulpo licked his palm and ran it over the jutting blackness that was his hair. It accomplished nothing in the way of taming his cut but was a satisfactory source of amusement. "D'oh, my. I had no idea we were meeting a lady."

Ysa knew that a facile grin found itself on her face. "Well, she's not married, Ment-er, _Grandfather_ ," she corrected, "You may have a chance after all."

Hearing that, Ulpo's pointed ears twitched, and he stood tall and proud, a certain degree of flamboyance added to his meager hobbling. Fork held high like a scepter, he strode around in front and led Ysa through the streets, blissfully unaware of their destination. But, with a few careful prods in the correct direction when he veered away, he could enjoy the illusion that he did.

Her only wish was that he let go of her cloak before sauntering along the stone road so she didn't look like the second-largest buffoon in the city. Nevertheless, if being a buffoon got them to their destination quicker, then a queen of them she would be.

Apothecaries were a rare place for Ysa to visit, given that alchemy was on the opposing side of the magical spectrum that she was interested in. Beyond selling people the occasional medicinal potion, which she commended, the business was filled with rogues trading supposed "elixirs" that were likely a swallow of mead blended with smashed bug guts. It was a nasty market, and the swindlers leaping at the chance to gain coin for no effort were only half of the reason she detested it. Ysa was not blind to the effectiveness of a well-mixed healing potion in an emergency, though, or one to regenerate magicka.

Fortunately, Suleh was knowledgeable on that sort of mixture and more. That wasn't to say she was disciplined; she was far and away from such a vile, hampering word. She would have been a splendid mage, Ysadette once told her, if she spent less time experimenting and more time dedicated to her studies. However, experimentation served Suleh well, assuming it did not blow up in her face or fill her home with toxic fumes as it typically would. She was boundless in her curiosity and boundless when it came to exploring whatever path her whims led her down, no matter the danger. She would rather die than admit it, but Ysadette admired that about her.

As they arrived at the building, Ysadette looked to the garish sign hanging above the doorway and pinched the root of her nose, absentmindedly groaning. There was no denying that it was Suleh's. It had her markings all over it. She shook her hands to relieve some tension and took a deep breath, hoping she would be able to tolerate her for the time she planned on staying.

The door was yanked open from the other side, revealing the woman standing behind it in all her alchemical ingredient covered, perpetually garden-scented, lop-sided clothing glory. She shielded her eyes from the sun, but her teeth-baring grin never wavered. "Ah! There you are!" she said in a voice that fit a famished hunter spotting his quarry rather than meeting an old friend.

Ysa looked over the variety of colored splatters on Suleh's dress, some actively eating their way through the fabric. "Er, Suleh?"

"What are you standing there for? Come in!"

"You appear to be having a problem." Ysa pointed at one spot on her shoulder where a smoking hole opened.

Suleh looked on, her smile still wide, but eyebrows slanted as if Ysa were speaking another language and she was trying to humor her. She then traced the length of Ysadette's arm to where her finger pointed, then dropped her smile to swat at the corrosive mixture. "Oh, damn." Wasting no time, Suleh turned on her heel and entered the building to find a large jug of water and a cloth that she used to wipe off whatever it was that was hungry for the material of her clothing.

Ysa held her forehead in her palm. _Off_ _to a wonderful start, as ever._

Suleh tugged at her dress until it the hole was in sight, a pout displacing her previous beaming grin. "Oh, and I only bought this a week ago," she whined, her head thrown back and knees buckled.

Ulpo marched through the door ahead of her and headed directly towards Suleh. With a deadly seriousness about him, he stood before her, nigh intimidating if it were not for his short stature.

Suleh eyed him, unimpressed, then looked over to Ysa and shrugged.

"Excuse me," Ulpo bowed his head, arm extended and leg out, a perfect depiction of sophisticated form, "Would you happen to know where her lady friend is? I am eager to meet her."

Head tilted and left hand holding her right elbow, Suleh leaned to peer beyond him. "What an adorable little gentleman. Is he yours?"

Ysa pulled Ulpo back and shot him a look that probably meant nothing to him anyway. "Yes, he is."

"Ah, so this is…"

"Yes, this is my Mentor," Ysa explained while Ulpo began to take things from the shelves and piled them next to a mortar and pestle, seemingly forgetting what he asked moment ago. "He's the very one I told you about in my letter. And I would advise you to not take that question personally. He thought I was an Orc when we first met."

Suleh's uneven lips told all. "Then I guess I did get off easy."

"That wasn't what I meant."

Suleh walked away, looking over her shoulder and humming a tune that grated Ysa's nerves.

"I did not come here to be made fun of, Suleh. Would you be serious for a moment?"

"I wish I could, but you look as if you've been rolling with the pigs for the past few days," she said back, pushing the tip of her nose up to mimic a snout.

"Ah! That's right! Our pigs!" Ulpo exclaimed, dropping everything he had in his arms on the floor and making a dash for the door.

Ysa leaped in front of him, stance wide and stopped him before he could escape. A slow shake of her head communicated solemnity enough to get his attention. "Later, Grandfather."

"Grandfather? Am I missing something?"

No more than three minutes had passed, and Ysadette already had a headache. Dealing with Ulpo alone was a test of her patience, but adding to his madness with Suleh's own variety was not an experience she prepared for. "I'll tell you everything, I promise you that," she said, swallowing a curse tried to claw out of her lips, "But first…"

Suleh quieted her snickering long enough to hear her demands. She clasped her hands together and nodded to show she was ready to listen regardless of the mischievous smirk dominating her face.

Ysa pressed her hands against her pulsing head and exhaled through her nose. "I'm filthy. I'm exhausted. I'm covered in scrapes and bruises. I spent half of yesterday drenched and under pouring rain and the other half picking mud out of my hair. I haven't eaten much in the past few days, and I've been chased by bandits and Thalmor agents alike," she said and bent a finger back for each grievance as she approached Suleh. "I want something to eat, preferably a slice of apple pie. I want to sleep in a real bed that is not crawling with insects, and most importantly." Ysa stood right up against her dumb, condescending smile. "I. Want. A. Bath!" she enunciated before marching away, her requests made abundantly clear.

"I'll get you some clothes and start cooking, then!"

.~~~.

When Ysadette left the apothecary after finding it empty, Suleh was waiting underneath the tree, Ulpo next to her, twiddling his thumbs. Meeting them outside was not the place Ysa had in mind, but at least she had chosen a place where they would blend in.

"Oh, but don't you look so adorable," Suleh said with a squeak.

Ysa grabbed the length of the dress and held it so it would not collect dirt. "If I didn't know any better, I would think you were trying to kill me with this thing."

Suleh looked at the pile of fabric at Ysadette's feet. "Sorry. I thought you would have finally gotten taller."

Ysa slumped forward and rested her elbows on her legs when a spell of lightheadedness made her wobble.

"Something the matter, Ysa?" Suleh asked. "We used to always poke fun at each other, but I feel like a bit of a bully today with you being so quiet."

"I'm tired," Ysa said curtly, putting one hand to her still throbbing forehead and glancing at her stirring Mentor.

Ulpo rubbed his hands together vigorously, wrapped his arms around the trunk of the tree, and threw his legs around it for good measure. Hand reaching over hand, he began to climb up but slid back down again.

Suleh watched over her shoulder as the scene unfolded, and he tried again. "I imagine you are. But, er, if I may?"

"Yes, go ahead."

"You don't seem like you're only tired."

"I _am_."

"Your lack of wit says otherwise," Suleh vaguely noted.

Ysa groaned loud enough for Ulpo to spin around and come to her side. She assured him that she was fine, and he returned to his business of failing the climb. "Please, we can talk when Isro gets here. Look, he's coming now so you won't have to wait long."

Suleh hummed again and tilted her head to one side.

Isro marched along, helmet held under his arm and shield slung over his shoulder. "Sorry for being late, Ysa. Curad needed to sober up from last night, so we had to find someone else to take over." He dropped his helmet on the grass and unbuckled his sword and shield. "Now, what exactly happened? Your letter said you were to be here sooner."

"Where to begin?" Ysadette breathed, "The first leg of the journey was marginally comfortable. We stayed off the roads and deep in the wilderness, but our food supplies ran low after a while. One day while I was hunting, I found a family of Nords encamped not too far from us. I convinced them that I wasn't a threat, and they agreed to let us travel with them until we reached Chorrol. They moved slower than I preferred, which is why we arrived later than expected, but it sounded better than walking until our feet were covered in callouses."

"Bad idea, I'm guessing," Suleh interjected.

"It wasn't at first, but it turned into one when you-know-who came along and found them guilty of heresy. The rest from there, I refuse to spell out for you."

"No, we can imagine for ourselves," Isro said.

Ysa scrunched up the fabric of her dress between her fingers. "After that, Grandfather and I wandered through the woods until a group of Bosmer tried to rob us. They…" she paused and held her shoulders in response to the frigid air that was gathering around her, "They would've taken everything if Ulpo hadn't had a moment."

"So that strange occurrence yesterday was his doing?" Suleh piped up louder than she should have.

Ysa cut her eyes at her. "You mean you could see it from here?"

Isro nodded. "I did. I told Sis about it later, but I haven't heard anyone else speak of it so I may be the only one. I was out on patrol at the time when I saw the lightning stop there in the sky." Isro peered back at Ulpo, who was making significant progress if he intended on covering the new tunic Suleh gave him in grass stains. "I thought I was hallucinating."

"Then we can't stay here for too long," Ysa said. "Others might have noticed it as well."

"Dammit," Isro spat. "You don't think they'll come here, do you?"

"I wouldn't rule it out," Ysa said. "They'll need to search the area where it happened first and then try to track us. Since it rained so much, that'll delay them but not likely not for long. It's only a matter of time before they investigate Chorrol. However, I hope to be gone by then."

"So how long do we have, do you figure?"

Ysadette leaned back and tucked her hand underneath her chin to aid her thinking. "Four days at the least. Ten at the most. They may work quickly, but they aren't capable of creating tracks where there aren't any in the first place."

Suleh sighed restrictively. "Then we're safe for a little while. That's wonderful, but what are you going to do once you leave from here? You can't avoid them forever."

Ysadette looked back at Ulpo again, who was showing his teeth and menacing the massive tree with his fork. "The plan hasn't changed. Once we start out again, we'll go to the Imperial City. I'm going to learn everything that I can from the public archives at the Arcane University. Maybe I'll find out if what I suspect about Grandfather's affliction is true."

Suleh smirked even if she shuddered a bit. "Read until it all makes sense? That's just like you. After that?"

"We head north, to Bruma," she said. "Once we get there, I'll gather enough supplies to last us the trip through the Pale Pass and cross the border into Skyrim. I've heard their presence is spread thin there with the civil war going on. We should be able to lose them, maybe for good, once we reach Falkreath."

"A bold plan," Isro added. "Next?"

Ysadette's next words were caught someplace between her chest and her mouth. Ysa asked herself the same question more often than she was comfortable admitting yet never imagined anyone else would ask it as well. "I was going to work on our next move once we crossed over." Ysadette shrank, demoralized that she was now verbalizing her tentative plans.

"No idea, then?" Suleh surmised. She twisted around and laid her arms over the back of the bench, staring at the ever-active Ulpo. "Can I ask you a question, Ysa?"

"Go ahead."

Suleh tilted her head to one side, lips drawn straight and thin. "I don't mean to find fault with you, but have you ever wondered if what you're doing is best for him?"

"What other choice is there?" Ysa snapped. "Let him be dragged away by them and…" she paused as she heard herself trying and failing to hide the irritation in her voice. A heated argument would only increase the odds that someone paid attention to them. Besides, Ulpo already was doing his best to raise awareness.

"No, of course not," Suleh said. "All I'm asking is if you've ever wondered what he wants."

Ysa looked on as Ulpo swished his hands around, a handful of leaves following in a single-file line after his thin fingers. With a graceful twirl, he paraded them around his legs and up to his neck and face where he sneezed, scattering them once again.

"I've asked myself that several times over," Ysa said. "But I can't be sure whether or not he's even remotely aware of what's really going on. There are moments when he seems as if he has some semblance of it, then on other days he is utterly nonsensical."

"And today?"

Ysa shook her head defeatedly. "He's been incomprehensible since I woke him this morning. He started congratulating himself on denying some man in gaudy clothing the pleasure of seeing him dance and play but forgot what he was saying seconds later." A feeling cold as winter shot up her body again as she remembered her own startling morning. Yet somehow, she still managed to feel as if she was sitting next to a furnace on the way to reaching sweltering temperatures. "It seemed that we both had strange dreams last night, though. I was back at home with my mother. I didn't want to sleep yet, so I got up and went to find her. When I left my room, however, something…" Ysa shivered involuntarily. "Something started to chase me. There was this sound like a beating drum getting louder and louder…"

"Ysa, are you feeling alright?" Suleh asked and placed her hand on Ysadette's arm.

"Then I tried to run, but it was faster than me. It felt as if I really were back in Rivenspire. I tried to find Mother, and I thought it was her running towards me, but when I turned around again, I saw…"

"Ysa!" Suleh snapped, pulling her out of the stomach-turning fear before it overwhelmed her.

Ysadette blinked a few times to reorient herself, off-put by her own behavior as well. "I...I'm sorry. I haven't been feeling well all day. I must be more tired than I think I am," she said, the words sounding unconvincing even to her own ears.

Isro stood to his feet and gathered his helmet from the ground. "Ysa, listen. All this traveling and hiding, I think it's getting to you. How long has it been since you slept a full night?"

Ysa bit her tongue and rolled it to buy herself time to think. How long had it been, indeed? True, uninterrupted, sleep not forced on as a surrender to exhaustion sounded like a foreign concept the more she pondered it. Ever since that night in the woods during Last Seed, Ysadette found that rest no longer came to her as effortlessly as it once did. When it did, it was flighty and, in the best situation, she only awakened as fatigued as she was before resting. A hand shoved against her forehead shortened the time she hoped to think on the notion considerably. She tried to swat her away, but Suleh was relentless in her endeavor and brought the other hand around to replace it.

"Your forehead is hot. I think you're coming down with something," Suleh said as she stood up and dusted her dress with her hands. "How about we go back inside, and I'll work on brewing you something for it?"

Ysa shook her head, swaying more than she wanted due to the gesture. "No, I can't do that, Suleh. I can't sit around and do nothing."

"What do you mean?" Suleh asked with incredulity in her words.

"Those bandits, they…" Ysa placed her fingers on her neck, still red and tender from before, "They took the amulet Andard gave me. I-I have to find them before they sell it off or I'll never see it again!" Ysa stood up, her head swimming as she gathered her dress in her hands and started towards the gate. The road stretched out before her, twisting and turning and growing much longer than she remembered it being. No way in Oblivion was that going to stop her. She would not allow that. But why did she feel so driven? It was not rational in the least, but her legs would not stop moving even when she demanded they listen.

"Ysa!" Suleh called out. "Come back!"

Ysa's heart pounded faster by the second and louder than a war drum. She needed to find that necklace before someone else did. She needed to do something, but everything was tottering so much that she was barely capable of standing straight. Ysa wiped thick beads of sweat from her forehead and noticed all the wary eyes around her. Did they know something? No, that was impossible. Or was it?

A frightened squeal leaped out of her throat when she felt two large arms wrap around her and pull her back. Her legs grew weak, and she began to stumble. "Let me go, I need to find it! I need to get it back!" she said through gritted teeth as her vision became so blurry that she could not discern the gathering of darkened faces in front of her.

"What's going on over there?" an unknown voice shouted.

"The poor girl's fallen ill!" said another one with an elderly softness to it.

"Step back! Give her some space!"

Ysa blinked at the shadowy edges closing in around her until two hands shot out and held her face still. "No, please," she felt around until she found the arms the hands belonged to, "I need to go. Before I lose..." she slurred until the encroaching dark blotted out the sun and shushed her softly.

.~~~.

Garbled voices shouted over each other and silenced themselves at once when she opened her eyes to find a different location around her. The change in scenery took place in the time she needed to snap her fingers and was plenty to bewilder her, but Ysa knew where it was. The organization methodology that led to scattered pages and cluttered piles of broken apparatuses were a mark of Suleh's presence. She was back inside the apothecary, a cold, damp cloth laid flat across her brow. Blearily, she removed it and looked about the room to notice she was alone until a single, unthinking cough doubled the intense pressure in her skull. Ysa shut her eyes tight and pushed both hands against her temples until they no longer teetered on the edge of splitting open and took slow, deep breaths - each one slowing the pounding in her chest.

With a grunt, she sat up and placed her feet on the floor. The ceiling lurched to the side, and the wall leaned over her as she tried to stay upright. Her hand shot out for balance but knocked a glass container to the floor.

A stirring in the lower floor began, seemingly in response to how much noise she was making. Ysa rubbed her eyes and imagined for a moment that the cloudy ones chasing her in the dreamscape cropped up in the corner, the thumping once again heralding their presence.

It was only Suleh that stumbled around the corner and into view, hands filled with bottled potions of one color, fresh splatters on her clothes. When she caught Ysa looking at her, she offered a sympathetic glance. "Ah, I guess I did hear you. I didn't expect you to wake up yet." Suleh set the potions on the table one by one and sat on the cleared edge, shoulders slumped and hands covering one another. "You fainted outside if you're wondering about that. Isro carried you up here a while ago."

"Why did I pass out? A-Am I ill?"

She drummed her fingers on the cork of the potions. "Uh-huh. Fever. Delirium, general fatigue, normal things like that are expected. I'm no healer, but I believe yours was brought on by too little sleep, too little food, and far too much stress."

Fever was all that Ysa needed to hear. The cause of it didn't matter. She drew her legs into the bed and rolled over to face the wall, already fuming at the new calamity. Their method of travel ended with three innocents dead, they almost lost what little they had in the woods immediately after, and now she was ill when they needed to keep moving. Simply a disaster. Ysa began to grind her teeth in the boiling frustration.

"I can hear your thoughts, you know," Suleh said with an unnecessary, self-congratulatory pitch in her voice. "Now, before you get worked up, let me tell you that you're lucky you made it here when you did. Another day and you'd likely be bedridden and unable to make the trip. If you weren't careful, things could've taken a turn for the worst and…" she popped a cork out from one of the glass bottles and held it up to the light, one eye closed, the other opened wide. "You probably know already. I thought something was wrong when you showed up earlier. The strange dreams and passing out just gave me all the proof I needed." She grabbed Ysa's shoulder and tugged to roll her over. "Here, sit back up and drink this."

Ysa stared down the bottle and pouted. The fumes were pungent and holding her nostrils shut did nothing to alleviate the burning inside her nose when she held it close to her mouth. Ysa gagged when she tasted the first drop and nearly spat it back out when the rest came flooding in behind it. "Where…" she said before doubling over. Another try. "Where's Ulpo?"

"Downstairs. Maybe asking for you like he has been since we brought you up here. Isro is keeping an eye on him while I take care of you." Suleh sat down on the edge of the bed and folded her hands on her lap, her thumbs beginning to wrestle each other as she looked towards the window. "I'm, uh, sorry for teasing you earlier. I thought I would lighten the mood, but now I see that it wasn't the time for that."

"No, I…" Ysa trailed off and buried her face in her hand, "You didn't bother me, Suleh. I didn't mean to give you that impression."

Suleh glanced over her shoulder with an unhappy smile displacing the sunny one she once wore with pride. "Now that Isro isn't around, I've been meaning to ask how you're coping, Ysa. After everything that's happened."

It was a question Ysa wanted to avoid if possible, but instinct and an ability to understand the nosiness of human nature meant that she wasn't surprised to hear it. Ysadette shrugged to act indifferent towards the topic. "As best as I'm able. I have too many other things to worry about."

Suleh frowned deeply. "I was afraid you'd say that," she said with her eyes watching her tapping feet. "Look, I don't want to be a nuisance to you, but I want you to be honest with me."

"I said I'm fine," Ysa said again.

"Somehow, that doesn't convince me. I know it's like you to carry everything on your own, you've always been like that. But I also know how much harm that can do to someone. Seeing you lash out like that was…" Suleh trailed off and shook her head. "It was unsettling, to say the least. You're always so levelheaded that I…"

"I'm sorry," Ysa said, cutting her off. "Everything that happened yesterday has me on edge, and I let my emotions get the better of me." She slid back down and pulled the covers up to her chin. "It's only stress, I assure you. I'm sorry if I caused you to worry."

"It's nothing to apologize for, so would you stop doing that?" Suleh didn't raise her voice from a soft mutter, yet the words begged to be spoken fervently. "Isro and I have been worried sick about you since you wrote to us the first time. I know it must be hard to be open with your, er, Grandfather because of his condition, but I don't want you to forget that I'm here for you as long as you decide to stay. Isro, as well, if you can ever tear him away from guard duty."

Ysa begged under her breath that she shut up. Damn her and her prying. "As I said before; I'm fine. Really. You don't need to waste time worrying about me."

Suleh rolled her shoulders forward and shook her head. "Well then," she said as she stood up and turned on her heel. Her hand lingered on the end table where the other potion bottles were, fingers tapping the cork in each of them several times over. "I'll leave it at that and not push any further. But if you do change your mind and feel like talking about anything, let me know, will you? It doesn't matter if it's day or night, in the apothecary or if you'd rather sit on top of the wall and let me know how you're feeling. And if you feel like talking to Isro instead of me, then I won't be offended at all so long as you're feeling comfortable. Can you promise me you'll do that?"

Ysa rolled over to face the wall again, sensing the scrutinizing gaze on her back during the few moments Suleh lingered in the room further. Surely, it was a way of extending one more chance to speak up if a wasted effort. Truth be told, there were many days that she wanted to forget about after that night in the woods during Last Seed and talking about it was only going to dig out the ache she worked tirelessly to smother. But the thought of being able to express her self-reflection to a real, arguably sensible human being for the first time in quite a while nagged in her mind. And still, she pushed her thoughts into the back of her mind, far away from any ears that would hasten the chattering of opinionated mouths. It wasn't like Suleh could understand anyway. "I will," Ysa lied, tasting how unpleasant that lie was.

Suleh took one step down the stairs but stopped before leaving the room entirely. "I'll bring dinner up in a bit. Do you want a book to read until then?"

"If you'd be so kind. But, please, something that's not an alchemy manual. They're always too droll for my tastes."

She threw her head back and guffawed in response before leaving her alone to stare at the blank wall. It was a strange laugh, though, utterly bereaved of any joy and riddled with insincerity to match Ysadette's own.

As Ysadette watched her leave, she wondered why she thought she could convince her with such flimsy words. She wondered why she'd just pushed away from the first point of contact she'd had in months, too.

Maybe she was a queen of fools after all.


	8. The Gray Forest

8

.~~~.

Before he crested the hill and took in the sight, Mytho was able to smell what awaited him on the other side. The soft crunching of fallen, dried leaves underneath the hooves of the newly christened Empress gave way to a sound likened to stepping on fresh powder snow. Hills covered in green and golden grasses turned to gray and white, covered by a blanket of ash and sparse remains of blackened trees. A wildfire must've burned it away, he surmised, but the cause of the blaze was what drew him to investigate. Mytho leaped from his horse and sank his boots into the pile of debris.

"Well hang me from the gallows," he said to himself, resting his hands on the hilts of his swords, "Aressia wasn't joking when she said they were dangerous." Mytho took the reins and tried to lead Empress down the hill.

She yanked back and flicked her ears around wildly before freezing in place.

"Come on, now. Come on," he coaxed.

Empress did not move a muscle.

Maybe he was losing his mind, sympathizing with an animal, but Mytho understood her trepidation, and he couldn't blame the horse for being afraid. He was unnerved as well now that he was standing among the unexpected. His Employer said that the last sighting of the two was in the forests north of Kvatch, but Mytho expected there to _be_ a forest standing when he reached the area.

Not a pit of ashes. Regardless of his preconceptions, he walked Empress back from the wasteland and tied her to a tree where he was sure she'd be safe.

There was hardly anything left to denote that life took place there. Not a single animal wandered the area in the aftermath and the birds seemed to circle back the other direction as they approached like it would drag them out of the sky if they dared to cast a shadow on it.

Mytho knelt down and brushed a dusting of ash from the back of the immolated corpse lying at his feet. The patterns were dulled and the feather-like protrusions on the helmet and shoulders were misshapen, but the gold-bronze intricacies, woven in moonstone in all their obnoxious showiness, were still apparent. There was no denying it; the body belonged to a departed Thalmor soldier. Hearing the crackling in his back as he stood straight, he glanced at the other body sprawled out across the way. Words from the previous night whispered to him as he noted how it, too, showed signs of burning.

"There be a woman, enwreathed in flickering fires and sorrow, prowling the Gray Forest! Behind her is a squat demon whose only purpose is to gather the souls left in her wake and drag them into the Void! No Man or Mer ought to venture into her domain lest they are keen to meet her face to face and suffer her unholy wrath," said the traveling band of performers in that dramatized tone that Mytho loathed to hear.

That was the first he heard of the fire, but he brushed off the seemingly glamorized story as just that; a story. It never took much time for folktales to sprout up after any disaster – they made good for those lighter in the pockets. Nevertheless, he was not for vapid superstition, especially not when he had a reasonably sound idea of what happened in the forest. Chances were that the "Lady-In-Flames" and her thrall they feared and were far away from the woods and if he had to make another assumption, not a duo to prey on unsuspecting travelers.

He clutched the handles of his blades tight. And even if she were, he was no unsuspecting traveler.

Yet two questions remained in his mind; what in the name of Akatosh did they do to compel her to burn down a forest in retaliation? Or did she? According to his Employer, the Dark Elf she was protecting possessed the kind of power that even a high-ranking Thalmor official would bow to. Whether that was out of fear or genuine respect was yet to be seen, but the point still stood. If he was being truthful about the old elf, then turning a forest to ash would be child's play. In turn, the question would also be of his motivations, not of his method. Escape sounded much simpler in both scenarios, so why did they leave behind a dramatic example? To strike fear into the others while daring them to give chase?

Mytho leaped over a fallen trunk and landed on the other side, hearing a crunch when he landed. He lifted his foot to find a skeletal hand shattered underneath it. He swallowed a heavy lump and asked the dead that his transgression would be pardoned.

Never mind the fire setter, what of his own safety when he caught up with them? Swordsmanship and valor meant very little in the face of someone that could incinerate him with less than a thought. A bit of roughhousing and a simple kidnapping were out of the realm of possibility. Not to forget the fact that carting two limp bodies on his shoulders up a mountain, if he did make it that far, sounded hilariously impractical.

Mytho's foot caught on a stone buried under the ash and he stumbled forward, his marching thoughts falling by the wayside. It was too early to begin scheming about that anyway, and he was a man who knew how to work with an opportunity. Somehow, a way would make itself known when he needed it or he would force an option to appear. That's how things always played out and he was better for it.

Indeed, he would need that inventive spirit on this quest more than ever now that something besides his life was at stake. At worst, a job could go catastrophically wrong and he would end up with a blade tickling the backside of his throat, but at least he intended on dying without a regret in his heart and an honorable acknowledgment of whoever bested him. If anyone could.

Mytho found that he now had no choice but to die burdened by guilt should it come to that. An admittedly sappy letter that he faintly hoped Aressia did not make into kindling and forget about excellently assured that would be the case.

He ran his fingers through his hair and stopped at the crown of his head to scratch the growing itch. What was he thinking, anyway? Promises and their ilk only bred misfortune so it was best that he avoided making them. Much of the folklore he encountered in his travels were marred by an ironic twist of fate where a poor fool would make a pledge he would die hoping to keep. Poetic, but no less terrifying when he found himself in the very situation. Beyond the presumptuous nature of his oath, it was profoundly stupid to give the mind any reason to be distracted. His could find excuse enough without help. One misjudged dodge, one falter of his sword arm and…

Again he was interrupted by the carnage strewn about when he entered a busier scene. Several more bodies were tossed about, he counted five, with visible slash marks across their partially decayed bodies. Some were missing a limb while others were violently beheaded with what Mytho guessed to be a dull blade. Nothing short like a dagger, but a full-length, heavy broadsword. "More like their heads were torn off rather than sliced cleanly," he uttered, "But by whom?" He eyed the bumpy, jagged lines along the sites of their wounds.

As far as he was aware, mages were not known for being skilled enough to wield a blade against trained soldiers. The girl and her teacher must've happened upon an ally with a leaning towards the combat arts in their travels. A respectable idea, considering that the possibility of running out of magicka was the bane of many spell-slingers.

He began to stroke his chin. "Then…they may have associates along their trail?" he pondered out loud. But that lead would die as quick as it flickered to life. An exasperated groan crawled up from his gut and he rubbed his forehead. The body of their helper may have been around, but it was also possible that it was lost for good in the ash or smashed underneath a fallen tree. If this ally was dead in the first place, anyway. A chase after the ghosts of those lying dead around him would prove to be a better use of his time.

For several more hours, Mytho staggered up and down the hillside, dust worming its way into every fold of his clothing and filling the empty space in his boots and gloves to chafe his skin. He began to wonder why he even bothered when it appeared there was nothing to be discovered among the devastation. Nothing except for the few sprouts peeking from underneath the thick layer of death that aimed to choke them out before they could begin.

Late in the day and grumbling all the while, he ascended a small hill, the final one he had the patience for, and noticed something was different. The dreariness building up within him was quickly replaced with optimism when he found a cooking pot and the remnants of a campfire.

Mytho opened the pot and gagged at the rancid odor of long-rotted food and writhing maggots. Gross, but undisturbed. Wonderful. Given any other circumstance, the bears would have swarmed the place like the fat bastards they are, but perhaps luck smiled on him so that he would happen upon that tidbit of evidence before they wiped it away. Favorite foods told little in the way of the two's current whereabouts, but if there were a pot and fire then their tents would have been surrounding it. He squatted in front of a pile of ash and began to dig into it, soon finding a few coins for his troubles. Added gold to spend was a pleasant turn, but it was not what drove him to burrow deeper.

As he drew his hand to one side, he knocked it against a sharp, rough edge. He felt along the length of it and felt that the surface was bumpy and square-shaped. Mytho took it in both hands and unearthed the mysterious object to blow the dust from it. He turned it over and held it out at arm's length, speculations on its manner of survival already taking shape in his mind.

"A book?" Mytho scanned the cover for a title only to have an empty void look back at him. Papers and cloth weren't the types of things he imagined himself finding in a burned forest and definitely not some lacking a title, but who was he to argue? It was plenty to set his course right once more. He tucked the book underneath his arm and started down the hill again, finger wedged in the corners of the pages and strumming at the middle.

Fugitives inexperienced in the craft of covering their tracks often spelled their own demise by chronicling their day-to-day operations. Fading from the world was a skill gained and practiced by only those who had a sharp enough mind for it. Those that didn't always found themselves watching over their shoulders until they were granted death. A twist in his gut told him the girl and her cohorts were of the latter grouping. With a spring in his step, Mytho returned to Empress and slid the book into one of the bags before leaping into the saddle. The forest may not have given him a map with every stop they were going to make along the way, but it was not a complete waste of time. Asking what power prevented it from being reduced to cinders lingered on his tongue for a moment before he supposed that rather than supernatural it was instead mundane. It was an important find, regardless. Even if the book was only a diary and told him nothing but the girl's inner monologues, he would still reach her with a better understanding of the type of person she was.

People fashioned themselves unique but in the end, they were all slaves to the archetypes he knew them to be. Just as the Warden in Dunbal fell to his pride, she too would have something exploitable. All he needed was a clue of its nature then what followed would be a one-sided game ending with her wrapped around his finger.

Mytho found pause for thought in that disconcerting moment of egotism. Was he truly feeling proud about leading an innocent into a trap where he knew nothing of what awaited them? Did that kind of deception come so naturally to him that he found his ability rewarding? Mytho spurred Empress to move and began the ride eastward.

Perhaps it did. What of it? Better to cultivate a useful technique than make a fool of himself trying and finding out how expansive his deficiency was. But, he would not turn a blind eye to it. Calling his quest a nasty bit of business was among the lightest of things he could say about it.

Then, he looked over his shoulder to the West, beyond the horizon where Anvil was hidden and then back to the gathering of clouds of the East.

Yes, it was cruel, but if cruelty was what it took to avoid breaking the promise he made to Aressia, then the evilest of men he would become without delay. Making yet another mistake was unacceptable as already he had dragged her into a predicament he never wanted her to be aware of. It was for that reason he left without a farewell. That and the possibility that she would tag along.

He shook his head and chuckled at the silliness of his unease. No, she'd be more sensible than that. Aressia clearly wasn't as he knew her before. She wasn't a spontaneous girl that needed a guiding hand anymore. She had grown up.

He hoped. She did, didn't she? Perhaps he should have made it clear that she was to stay behind in his letter. If she bothered to open it, that is.

No, he could trust her. Straining himself to forget about her existence and move on must have made him overlook that Aressia was always dependable despite the shabby example he set for her.

Mytho whipped the reins and caused Empress to break into a gallop. _Focus. Fixate only on the job you've been given._ _You've lied to yourself for a while now. A bit longer ought to be effortless._

He breathed in the rushing wind and let it out slowly, daringly, until there was nothing but the road leading to Skingrad on his mind.

.~~~.

Gentle breezes spiced of freshly harvested grapes from the local vineyards caught Mytho by the nose as he approached the well-to-do city. That same scent lingered in every nook and cranny of the town and was contested only by the outpouring of drink from the wineries, places Mytho would have frequented if it weren't for fear of finding himself a blathering drunkard in a jail cell without his pants again. It wasn't a stretch to say he might have been fond of the place. But, considering the number of posh Colovians tipping their glasses at common folk still struggling after the Thalmor siege a few decades prior, he could find it in his heart to excuse himself from their lavishness. There was something about that tasteless reality that nudged any sense of enjoyment he might've had to leave in a hurry.

After dismounting Empress and leaving her at the stables, he entered the gates and made for the Chapel District at the southern end of the city. It was almost a crime within itself that he was passing up on the opportunities to load his bags with all manner of fortunes from High Town, but he was, in fact, there for the populace nesting uncomfortably on the opposite end of the social range.

Mytho hadn't quite rounded the Great Chapel of Julianos when he heard a duo of small voices conversing. Both looked at him with narrow, suspicious eyes and then tried to disperse as he stepped into their view.

"Hold on," Mytho spoke up and tugged at his hood to reveal his face. "I have a few questions to ask of you."

The youngest of the two turned over his shaking palms and shrugged while the other vanished into the shadows. "S-Sorry, um, sir. I'm just a...just a humble beggar. I don't think you'd find me much help at all. I-I've trouble remembering much beyond my name."

"No?" Mytho reached into his coat and took the tiny purse containing the coins he pulled from the ashes and dangled it between his fingers. "Would a hot meal and a warm bed help clear your head?"

His eyes nearly became a reflection of the gold coins; round and shimmering brightly. The boy leaped out and tried to take the leather bag from Mytho's hands but found that they were empty before he reached them. "What're you trying, sir?" he flashed disgruntled eyes up at Mytho.

Mytho tucked the bag into its proper place beneath his clothing. "First things first, lad. Tell me, what do they call you?"

He bowed sloppily, gaze leveled where Mytho had slipped the jingling bag into. "Toren! Now, give me the coin!" he leaped again to find himself landing on the ground a moment later and still with nothing to show for it.

He expected it to be easy, just not that easy. Apparently, the young man's head was clouded by something, but it wasn't any kind of ailment. Desperation, hunger, more like. "Yes, of course. But first, and correct me if I'm wrong, didn't you just tell me you can't remember your own name?"

His eyes widened and he bit down on his tongue. "That's-" He paused and after a moment of bitter silence, he laid flat on the ground and pushed the balls of his hands onto his face. "Damn it. How did you know?"

"Look at me, lad. Do I look like wet behind the ears to you? I can tell when someone's spouting a load of..."

Toren groaned loudly to interrupt him and stretched out on the grass. "Fine, you've found me out. I don't need a lecture."

Mytho dragged his palm across the width of his forehead. "Perhaps you do if that's your idea of a passable cover story. Ignoring the stuttering, I've heard that one a dozen times in my life, only one being truthful."

"Then leave already!" Toren pointed in the general direction Mytho'd come from. He leaped to his feet and tried to appear large and intimidating. "Or do you harass the less fortunate for amusement?"

Mytho shook his head. "I came here for information."

"From a beggar? Ha! You really are a dumb one."

"Spare me the front," Mytho said, "Anyone who doesn't have their head jammed squarely up their own arse knows that beggars are the eyes and ears for the Thieves Guild. Whether they want to be or not. Especially here in the richest damned city in the Province besides the Capital itself. I'm not leaving with nothing to show for the trouble."

For a brief second, his hardened expression was broken as he tried to avoid Mytho's eyes. "So what if I do know something you want? What do you say, then?

"Well, I would say that we have come to an impasse that can only be resolved by your choice, lad," he rested his hand on the lanky young man's shoulder and held him steady.

Toren traced his eyes along both swords and gulped loudly. "I…uh. What choice would that be?"

Mytho stretched his arm behind Toren and pushed him forward. "The choice of where we'll be dining, of course. Lead on, it'll be my treat."

.~~~.

It came as no shock that Toren made a bee-line for the most expensive tavern in the whole of County Skingrad, nor was it a surprise that the first thing he ordered was a hefty serving of venison and tore into like he hadn't been rightly fed in a week. The wildness of his consumption drew more attention than Mytho was comfortable with but he had no intentions of staying there for long after he had the information he wanted else he'd risk finding himself on the questioning end. He could let him enjoy the fleeting moment of luxury. Noisiness was preferable to threats and violence, after all.

Toren pointed the bottle of Surilie Brothers Wine towards the ceiling and sucked it down, a few stray drops running down his chin. "I've heard what happened, yes," he held one hand to his mouth, "But I never dared to venture up there myself. Story was that a wanderer headed to the place before the mages could choke the fire out with their spells. He thought he could find some valuable loot before anyone else but he came back empty-handed and scared senseless. Now that you've got me thinking, do you suppose it's cursed?"

Mytho leaned his chair on its hind legs and teetered gently, choking down a laugh. "I do, in fact. Cursed to be lied about. There is no Lady-In-Flames nor a squat demon in the forest."

The boy stopped just short of tearing another bite from his meat and raised an eyebrow. "Oh? You've been there, then?"

"I told you I was investigating it, did I not? I'd be a sorry excuse for a tracker if I didn't check there first. Problem is, I came to find out, that ashes don't make for good conversationalists and neither do the corpses buried in them." Mytho explained, "What I want to know is whether or not anyone at all survived the blaze. I figured you could help in that regard."

Toren stabbed his fork into the chunk of venison on his plate and crossed his arms. "I could, actually. I saw one of those _fancy_ elves in the robes come into town one night just after the smoke stopped. His clothes were all black and torn. Looked like he'd had a mishap with a forge so I figure he must've had something to do with it."

"What did he stop in town for?"

He shrank into his chair. "That I couldn't tell you. I didn't hear the whole conversation, but he met with one of the Count's personal servants. They talked for a good while, but I couldn't stick around or else they'd see me. Sorry about that, sir."

"No, that was a smart move, lad." Mytho placed his arm on the edge of the table and began to drum with his fingers. Thalmor agents loitering in the city was to be expected, but after clearly having their rears thoroughly kicked by the girl and Dark Elf? They would be keen on hiding that disgrace. There must have been a reason for the visit and even if there wasn't beyond cordiality, perhaps the elf divulged some useful information about the two. "What's the servant's name? Do you know?"

Toren nodded and swallowed the food in his mouth. "Everyone does. Ilawe. Imperial. His skin's as pale as a ghost. Dark hair. Always puts too much in it and slicks it back." Toren placed his thumb and finger on his forehead. "Ah, and he wears an emerald ring on a thread around his neck. Guess his fingers got too skinny?"

Mytho nodded in silent agreement with him. That precise of a description ought to make picking him out among a crowd simple. Although, the difficult part would arise soon after that. How in Oblivion was he supposed to get the man to talk? Having any one of the Dominion's number come to him, still licking their wounds, meant they must hold him in high regard. Would he hold that rank due to strategic cowardice or did he actually find the Thalmor's policy pleasing? That'd have to be the deciding factor in his dealings with the man.

"Damn elves are in everything nowadays," Toren set the bottle down on the table and hiccuped. "Ought to drive them out! There's more of us than there are of them. I'll tell you what, it was good to see one of those pointy-eared bastards looking so defeated."

The flushed red on his face was only growing with each sip, and so did his speaking volume. Then, something bubbled up in Mytho while he watched how Toren drank as if there wasn't enough in the world to quench his thirst. Only after a moment of looking him over did it become apparent that he was drinking for more than pleasure. It was a familiar sight although he wanted to believe it wasn't. "Let me ask you something else, Toren. You're too young and, from what I can tell, too able-bodied to be on the streets. Why is that?"

He paused and gave a squinted, suspicious glare. "My damned pa, that's why." Toren slammed the bottle down on the table and wobbled back and forth. "Threw me out when he found I didn't want to live my life on a farmstead!" he growled and tossed his head back to drink more. "I guess it could have been worse, eh?" he asked between sips.

"How so?"

Toren screwed up his face with a dazed smile. "I could've been a miserable old milk-drinker like him!" He held up the bottle and shook it back and forth before returning it to the table. "But I'd rather die a poor man, free as a bird than to be rich and hateful."

At that, Mytho looked down and covered his growing smile underneath his collar. He stood to his feet and straightened the belt holding his swords before making his way towards the entrance.

"Eh? Leaving already?"

"I have some preparations to make. No time to dawdle." Mytho dropped a fistful of Septims on the table. "If you learn anything, don't bother trying to find me. You'll waste your time. Wait behind the Chapel and I'll come to you."

Toren cupped his hand around the coins and swept them into the other waiting at the edge of the table. "Nonsense, I could…" Toren trailed off then dropped the rest of his sentence in favor of another, "Forget it. And the extra coin?"

Mytho shot a glance to his feet. One thing at a time. "I'll be needing some more information on another matter before I leave town. This is just a payment in good faith." He stopped at the door and jabbed his finger at the boy. "Spend. It. Wisely. And don't get yourself in any trouble." Mytho stepped into the busy streets and took a deep breath. He looked into the stone road and watched the flowing citizens going about their busy schedules, oblivious to his presence, save one lone figure on the street corner. When his eyes met theirs, they shared an intense glare before the she rolled around the corner and disappeared into the crowd, inadvertently beckoning him to follow.

 _A chase, then._ When the right type of people passed in front of him, he slipped into their group and disappeared before any nosy guardsmen took an interest in his business. _But you won't slip away from me._


	9. Thunder in the Hills

9

.~~~.

Ysadette massaged the sides of her head and sighed to herself as she walked along the boardwalk in Anvil. The rhythmic pounding in her head that hadn't eased since she awakened that morning deafened the crashing waves on the shore. With a wince, she pressed against her forehead as if it would silence the tiny drummer she imagined was playing giddily in her skull.

It didn't. Ysadette let the expression she wore for the passing people around her crack and fall into the frown she preferred – a stifled sort of half-moan crawling out of her lips. She'd had enough trouble focusing on whatever in the name of Julianos Ulpo had been trying to teach her during her morning lessons because of it. That endeavor, however, had been destined for a special kind of failure; the complete variety. She couldn't say she grasped any of his teachings, but then again, none of her reading materials mentioned the sort of methods he tried to tell her about.

" _Magic is a kind of music, d'oh, yes! You just need to hear it!"_ Ulpo had said while he dragged his thumb across the kitchen table. He'd then hum a vibrating tune through gritted teeth that she couldn't link to any bard songs she knew. _"It's everywhere! Dancing. Singing. The world listens if you play along with it!"_

A vein throbbed in her temples. If he wanted her to understand, why not extrapolate? Why did he decide to twirl around her house in a silly dance instead of answering her volley of questions? Prior experience with the schools of Alteration and Restoration magic allowed her to skip his lessons on them entirely and she knew the fundamentals of all the other schools. But not a damn one of them had anything to do with music! When she needed direction the most, he'd given her none!

Ysadette, distracted by her own thoughts, bumped into a passing man. She apologized for not being careful and continued on her way.

But, if she _had_ learned one thing in her lessons, it was that there was nothing that Ulpo said or did that could be taken at face value. He was someone who, by his own accord or by the madness that gripped him, routinely thought outside the realm of logic and reason. Hidden away in his senseless words were hints at concepts she didn't think about, meaning that his humming must have been the same in that regard. Or, as Andard had grown fond of insinuating, she was finally going mad without realizing it.

If that were the case, then at least she'd be able to live her life as unbothered as her Mentor.

Ysa stopped in the middle of the boardwalk and tucked her hand underneath her chin. _Perhaps I'm simply not viewing it from the proper angle?_ Many a renowned scholar in Tamriel's history had been hailed as madmen before they earned the esteem they deserved. Could Ulpo be the same?

No. She was just going mad. She had to be.

As she approached Andard's shop, Ysadette ran her fingers through her hair. If she didn't look disheveled, perhaps she'd be able to avoid another conversation about her Mentor's place in her home. Andard meant well, she never doubted that, but he was also too opinionated on matters he didn't understand. Ysa took a deep breath and reached out for the doorknob.

The door opened itself before she could touch it. A red-haired woman stepped out, her eyes still looking in the opposite direction. "Remember, you have two weeks before I come back again," she said with a commanding voice. "Make sure to have it by then or we'll have to charge you a late fee."

"Of course!" Andard said from inside. "Don't you worry a bit about that! Seventy-five Septims ready when you get here! And congratulations to you and your husband, ma'am!"

In typical Andard manner, he visibly disarmed her with a few words. The woman's cheeks went rosy and she stifled a smile before turning around and looking down at Ysadette. "Oh!" she said with a start. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to block your way." The woman's eyes narrowed a bit, as if she was studying Ysa's face and then snapped back to Andard – a knowing half-smirk on her face. Without another word, she left the shop.

Ysadette pressed her lips together as she watched the woman gliding across the boardwalk towards the city gates until the shutting door blocked her view. Andard fiddled with the lockbox on the counter with sharp movements as she strolled across the room and looked over the new objects displayed on the shelves. Ysa took a fist-sized stone and rolled it around in her palms, her face distorted by the glossy surface. "Who was that?" she asked, stealing a glance at Andard.

Andard closed up the box on the counter and put it away. With his other hand, he shoved something into the pocket of his coat. "You know Tobias, don't you? The jeweler on the other side of town?" Andard said with a nod towards the doorway. "That was the manager of his business. And, uh, his wife, as well."

"Uh-huh," Ysadette mumbled.

"Indeed. She makes her rounds every two weeks to collect payments for an order I put in," Andard said. "You happened to be present, for once."

He walked around the counter and leaned back on his elbows. "I've done business with them once or twice so I could own some of that great Nordic craftsmanship I've heard so much about. And they are certainly making me pay for it. I hoped that she'd ease up since she's expecting, but she drives as hard a bargain as ever. Maybe even harder. I had to sell my Ayleid artifacts for half price to get enough to pay her today."

Ysadette replaced the blue stone on the shelf. "But you love Ayleid artifacts," she said. "You've been complaining about how hard it is to get them since you've stopped going on those 'expeditions' of yours."

Andard put his hand on the back of his neck and scratched while he craned his head from side to side, eyes rolling around in circles to avoid hers.

Ysa narrowed her eyes at him. "You haven't gotten yourself into trouble, have you?" she asked. "Is she scamming you?"

Andard waved his hands. "Of course not," he said. "At least, I don't believe so. Anyway, coin comes in and coin goes out," he gestured, "That's the way any decent business works. There's no way around that fact. No reason to worry about it happening. I just happen to be lacking the extra gold to toss around like some of the more rooted shops in town have."

Andard put his elbows back on the counter and leaned his head back, a cheeky smirk on his face. "Besides, it was either sell those pretty little trinkets or my body. And I know you'd never let any potential buyers live it down if you get jealous of a married woman."

Ysadette crossed her arms and shot a glance at him out of the side of her eye. "I am _not_ jealous of her," she said. "I was only curious of what you're hiding from me."

Andard tapped his hand on the counter and looked up at the ceiling. "Don't you worry yourself about that," he said. "I'm trusting you to watch your back around the old goofball, so you can trust me not to make any stupid decisions, correct?"

Ysadette pursed her lips and traced her finger along the shelf. "Maybe. As long as you can prove that your purchase was worth it," she said. "It was, wasn't it?"

Andard's gaze dropped to his feet and he smiled. "I'd never spend _that_ much coin on something that I didn't think was worth it, Detta," he said. "If I did, then my shop would've gone under a month after opening if it took it that long. The mercantile world is a cutthroat kind. In fact, I'd argue it's even more dangerous than the caves and old forts that outlaws have a liking for."

Ysadette sighed. "I'm sure. But you've put some aside for tomorrow, correct? You didn't forget about the festival, did you?"

Andard grimaced. "I uh…" he stammered while he patted himself down. His fingers dug into each pocket in his clothes from top to bottom – each time returning empty. Andard looked at Ysadette and made a face before kicking his foot on the ground and shoving his hands so deep into his pockets it was if he was trying to touch the bottom of his feet. "Dammit. I just know that I had a small coin pouch set aside for the festival tomorrow. And wouldn't you know it? I've gone and misplaced the damned thing. Strange."

"Flower Day only comes around once per year!" Ysadette exclaimed, stamping her foot. "I don't want to miss another one!"

Andard pushed off the counter with a huff. "We can still go, Detta," he said. The corner of his lips curled into another smirk. "I just won't be able to treat you to one of every kind of pastry on sale tomorrow."

Ysadette bit her tongue and leaned back on her heels. Sampling the desserts all day was her favorite part. So much so that it was the all they'd done for the first three years they went together.

"How about this?" Andard asked as he put his hands on her shoulders. "If I close the shop early today, would that make it up to you? You and I can go for a walk down to the cove you love so much and relax for a while. Watch the waves and the ships heading out to sea. And later this evening, I'll stop by the Chapel and see if Mother Lalia can help me bake a pie for you. I've heard she has a magnificent sweet-tooth so I'm sure she's learned a few recipes over the years."

Andard's rough hands squeezed her shoulders and back in all the right places to draw tension out of her that she didn't know she had. "And what kind of pie will it be?" Ysa asked.

"Apple," Andard said. "Your favorite. Will that get me out of trouble?"

"It may," Ysa said with a sigh. "But only if you teach me how to dance tomorrow at the festival. I'm rather tired of seeing the same faces twirling around the town-square every year. It's time the two of us contest their rule."

Andard chuckled. "That's the kind of confidence I like to hear," he said. "I'll shine my dancing shoes tonight and set out my fine clothes. Now, let me find my key and we'll get out of here. It _reeks_ of debt."

Andard circled around the counter and patted around on the shelves underneath it. His face fell into a frown and he grumbled something under his breath. "That's two things I've misplaced today," he said as he stood back up. "Do you have yours?"

Ysadette felt around inside the belt-pouch around her waist until she felt the rusty metal knock against her knuckles. "Maybe I ought to tie it on a string so you can wear it around your neck?" she said, dangling in front of her face.

Andard laughed. "A wonderful idea. But why go through all that trouble when I've got you around? And the locksmith and I've become friends from all the business I've been giving him lately."

Ysadette tossed the key to Andard and turned to leave the shop. "Really, you must try…" She stopped and staggered to the side as she lost her balance. Something that she couldn't see made Ysa's skin itch – something that carried with it a hint of magicka that intermingled with her own. The hairs on the back of her neck stood straight before she had time to wonder why that was, but she knew her ears were ringing - her forehead throbbing worse than before as if her brain wanted to break out of her skull.

Andard shouted something, but his voice was muffled by a crack of thunder that rocked the building. He leaped over the counter and ran towards her. Andard threw his arms around her as the ground rushed up to catch them both. Hanging items swung around the shop in wide circles. Shelved objects leaped at them and crashed into the ground. An angry crack splintered the floorboards and ran up the side of the wall in a hurry to the ceiling. Andard looked back, his eyes wide, mouth agape, before throwing himself over her.

Ysa thrust her hands out and channeled all the magicka she had into a spell just as the second-floor gave way. The muscles in her arms seared as an orange light enwreathed the broken planks and boxes to hold them aloft. She gritted her teeth and nudged Andard with her knee. "We have to get out!" she shouted. "Now!"

Andard grabbed her and rammed the door open. Without Ysa to hold the shop up any longer, though, it was bound to fall. Another tremor shook the docks. The shop groaned as the support beams snapped and the roof collapsed into a jagged mess of planks and nails.

Ysadette shot to her feet. The world lurched to the side and the air around her pulsated. She pushed both hands against her forehead and stumbled around as the ground shifted underneath her feet. More thumping drowned out the frightened shouts from the other people walking along the docks.

White foam sprayed from gaps between the boards of the docks. The sea grew enraged and tossed the moored ships in the harbor like they'd been caught in a storm. Andard grabbed Ysadette and held her steady as a wave swatted at their feet. "Ysa! We can't stand here!" he shouted. Another quake knocked a section of the docks away for the sea to swallow up. "Come on!"

The sound grew louder, louder until Ysadette couldn't hear her own thoughts. All she could focus on was the pounding. Growing. Beating like a stampede was passing her by or an army was charging the city. So much damned pounding. In rhythm with something she felt some familiarity with.

Her breath caught in her throat. She didn't want to know it. But she did.

"What's wrong with you?" Andard screamed, frantic. He looked around at the fleeing people. They were the only two figures left on the docks.

"Ulpo," Ysadette breathed, dreading the name. "I have to find Ulpo."

"It's an earthquake!" Andard shouted. He reached out and tugged weakly at her arm, then his face blanched. His legs buckled and crumpled to the ground before Ysa could catch him. "What in the…" he trailed off. Andard flattened his palms against his ears. "Just Go!" he said, "Get the Fool and put a stop to this!"

Ysadette reached her hand out to him, but he pushed it away.

He flashed her a smile through tightly gritted teeth. "Don't worry about me!" he said. "I'll be fine!"

Two halves of Ysadette screamed at her to do opposing things. Leave or stay. Let it pass or end it. She wrung her hands and bit her tongue, then ran towards the city gates spouting ever curse she'd ever known.

 _Please be safe. Please be safe._

Pounding. Beating. Rattling. The world a drum.

 _Why, Ulpo? What are you doing?_

Caught in the middle. Played to the tune.

.~~~.

Ysa snapped her head to the side and glared at the source of the dinging.

Suleh was hammering the Mandrake root into a pulp, masterfully tearing down any semblance of peace that was previously in the wilderness. With a swish of her wrist, she caught a dusting of Mandrake on the tip of the pestle and lifted it close to her squinted eyes. Her lips fell into a frown and she lifted the mortar to her nose to give it a sniff.

"Would you mind doing that when we aren't on horseback?" Ysa asked. "It isn't safe."

Suleh lowered the mortar into her lap. "Don't you worry yourself about it," she said. "This is far from the worst condition I've worked under. Remember the time we were chased by those trolls back in Hammerfell?"

"I also remember that they were attracted to the scent of pomegranate," Ysa said.

Suleh stuck her tongue out. "Details! How could I have known they'd like the smell?" She mashed the root further into a paste before scooping a smidgen to place on her tongue. Her lips puckered and she stifled a cough. "Besides, I need to finish this one so I can get started on something to pork you back up. You're looking so thin these days."

Ysa huffed in response and tried to keep herself from cooking the reins in her hand when Suleh pinched her. "My _point_ ," she said, "Is that we should be careful to avoid distractions. They managed to sneak up on Ulpo and I last time. We may have the numbers on our side but I refuse to let it happen again."

"Couldn't you just," Suleh paused and grunted emphatically until she found the words she was looking for. "Roast them like pigs? Or whatever it is you do with magic?"

"Ysa has a point, Sis," Isro called out from over his shoulder. He was walking ahead, guiding the horse Ulpo was perched backward on. "You've gotten us into trouble before. Maybe you should wait."

"Oh!" Suleh wailed, "For shame! You've wounded my pride! How shall I ever recover?" She then returned to her mortar and pestle, chuckling to herself.

Isro made a sound that Ysa thought frustrated.

"Take it from me," Suleh said. "You need to stop worrying so much. Both of you. Too much of that will do more to distract you than a smelly herb can."

"But for all I know they may be halfway to Leyawiin with my necklace," Ysadette muttered. Thinking about the possibility of losing her amulet for good drew her fingertips to the base of her neck again as if the reaction was instinctive. Ysa closed her fist and despite already being well-aware that it was empty, her heart skipped a beat anyway. Lacking the weight of the stone and the feel of cool metal against her skin made her yearn for the comfort of both sensations.

"Hup-hup! There you go worrying again," Suleh echoed again. "Life is too short to spend half of it as a worrywart. _Especially_ about things that have already happened."

"I still say we should've waited another day," Isro mumbled.

Ysadette frowned. "I can't afford to twiddle my thumbs and hope I feel better," she said. "Besides retrieving my necklace, there was something else they mentioned that interested me. I offered to heal their wounded in exchange for allowing me to keep it and..."

Isro's head whirled around and she felt his glare burning through her before catching his eyes.

"I know what you're going to say. So, please…"

"They're _criminals_ ," Isro growled. "The less of them, the better. What makes you think they wouldn't use you and take your necklace anyway?"

"Because the fact that they didn't slit my throat when they had the chance must mean they aren't irredeemably cruel," Ysadette said. "And they were mere seconds from taking up on my offer. They must be awfully desperate to consider trusting a stranger like myself. Especially after they'd given me a reason to harm them if the opportunity presented itself. Sick or wounded, one of those must be the case."

Suleh rapped the pestle against the mortar like a dinner bell. "And so, you've brought me along?" she said. "You handle the wounded and I cram potions down their throats for good measure?"

Isro marched onwards but grumbled loud enough to make his opinion clear.

"Don't mistake my attempt at goodwill as weakness," Ysa said. "If I'm wrong and they try to harm us, then I will not hesitate to do what's necessary and I wouldn't want you to, either."

"So you intend to use Sis's potions to…what?" Isro threw his arms up in the air. "Barter with them?"

"Precisely," Ysadette said. "Hopefully they will return my necklace and we can avoid further bloodshed." She reached down into her satchel and produced the spell tome containing Clairvoyance that awaited her inside. "Now, if you will allow me a moment to focus, I'll find us a trail to follow."

Incantations written in Daedric script lined the yellow, worn pages – glowing as if they could feel Ysadette's eyes scanning them. A union of voices whispered the words to her and Ysa shut her eyes to focus on both their meanings and the effect of them. The moment she had a clear image in mind of her necklace, the bandits, and the spell, the tome grew lighter in her hands. Strips of the red cover peeled away and turned black. The feathery edges of the pages curled up and withered, popping like a campfire. Ysa tossed it onto the ground.

The spell tome collapsed into a cloud of dust- gone aside from lines of ash carried by the wind. An array of fog trails colored the sky and the forest around her, leading in every direction she could imagine.

"Er, I must have done something wrong," Ysadette muttered as she tried to pick out a defined trail only to lose it among the others. "There should only be one or two at the most. Not…" she pointed a finger at each of them and began counting silently. "That many."

"Does Ulpo know how to cast it?" Suleh asked. "I'd love to see the old mer work!"

"Undoubtedly. I haven't any idea if he knows what to look for, though." Ysadette squeezed her eyes shut and crossed her fingers before casting the spell once more. She was sure that she had done it correctly and yet the cloudy lines multiplied, obscuring her vision entirely. "Nevermind. It may be worth a try," she said. "Grandfather? Could you help me, please?"

Before the words were allowed enough time to travel, Ulpo rolled to the side of his horse and threw himself over like he'd been waiting his entire life to be called upon. Isro's hands shot out, catching him before he could tumble down the road. "Of course! D'oh, yes!" Ulpo said, his legs still kicking in the air.

Ysadette leaped from her horse to meet him. "I'm having trouble understanding the proper form for casting the spell Clairvoyance," she said. "Would you mind showing me how?"

"D'oh, yes. Now, girl, watch closely," Ulpo said. He rubbed his palms together vigorously and widened his stance, fists balled and elbows on his knees. A duo of flickering, blue orbs formed around his hands and grew until his forearms were engulfed in light. He guided the stray wisps of energy around himself, forming them into a tightly packed ball held in the space between his flattened palms. With a piercing shout, Ulpo thrust his arms up and fired off whatever spell he'd been preparing.

Ysa slapped her hands against her ears. Birds nesting high in the trees fled to the sky and the deer tore through the woods to escape the horrid sound, yet it appeared that nothing had changed.

She uncovered her ears while his voice still echoed around her. Ysadette glanced back to catch sight of Isro's confused face and Suleh giggling like a child. "Erm. I believe you misheard me. I said Clairvoyance. Clair-voy-ance," she repeated, enunciating each syllable.

Ulpo folded an arm across his body and stroked his chin, nodding as if he wanted to agree. "What in Dagon's eyeballs did I do, then?"

"As far as I can tell, you scared the fauna," Ysa said. "Spectacularly so, I might add. Nevertheless, we will be needing the spell so we can find those…" Ysa trailed off when she heard Suleh's giggling and felt her cheeks grow warm. "Those 'stinky, unruly boys' that chased us in the woods the other day. Do you remember them? Try again, please."

Ulpo widened his stance and locked his arms.

Ysadette cupped her hand over his mouth just as the first crack of his voice sounded. Belittling, deceptive smiles were unbecoming and wildly immature in her opinion, but she fashioned one for the occasion. "Without the yelling this time. If it isn't too much trouble."

With a nod of his head in agreement, Ulpo clasped his hands behind his back and shuffled around in circles a few times, eventually extending his arms and leaning into the spin. Finally, with a showy flair, he stopped on his heel and pointed towards the woods. "This way, girl! Follow me!" he ordered and hobbled into the brush.

Ysa leaped back onto the horse before they lost sight of Ulpo. Like clockwork, a chill made her hair stand on end and made her hands tighten around the reins.

"Still not feeling well, eh?" Suleh said. "Guess that explains the failed spell." She detached a bottle from her belt and tugged at the cork until it came out with a satisfying pop. "Here, I brought a few of these along for the occasion. If it doesn't help, we can go back to Chorrol. I don't mind coming back on another day."

Ysa wasted no time in drinking the potion. Better to get it over with than dread it. "No. We likely have only a few days before the Thalmor investigate Chorrol. I'll be fine," she croaked and wiped the back of her hand across her lips. "I can keep myself upright for a few minutes until the potion takes effect."

Ysa tugged her cloak tighter and pulled the hood over her face, ignoring the blurriness of her vision. It wasn't the Thalmor keeping her on edge. She couldn't bear the thought of going back empty-handed. She didn't want the necklace back. She _needed_ it. Oblivion take her if she let it slip away. Not again.

.~~~.

Despite his snail-paced shuffling, Ulpo managed to lead them straight through the forest. When Ysa saw the rotten shack they'd slept in before, she knew that he was a better tracker than she'd given him credit for. After they ascended the cliffside and entered the woods above, Ulpo continued to the West, eventually stopping at a gash cut into the hillside. That was where the spell's effects wore off or the trail ended, she guessed, as he crossed his arms and grumbled under his breath something Ysadette wouldn't dare repeat.

"That's Silverbank Mine," Isro said, pointing his sword at the mouth of the cave. "Chorrol used to dig up ore from it until the damn thing went dry a few years ago. It'd be as good a place as any for a bandit hideout."

That settled it. Ysa pushed a ball of light into the air and let it hover around her as she descended into the cave.

Her nose wrinkled at the scent lingering in the air. It wasn't the mustiness she expected from a soppy mineshaft. It was something fouler. Then it hit her. Even with her sense of smell dulled, the stench of vomit made her stumble back, dizzy, and miserable groaning made her want to cover her ears. Ysa stumbled deeper into the cave towards the source of the noise. The narrow corridor widened, feeding into an open chamber supported by rotting beams.

Two Bosmer were sprawled out inside. One appeared to be asleep but was frighteningly still. The other was very much alive and the source of the moaning.

"Suleh, how many potions do you have with you?" Ysa asked and approached the woman on one side. She was breathing irregularly, but she was still alive.

"If they need a second round?" Suleh shook her head and passed a few bottles to Isro. "Not enough. I can go back to my apothecary and brew some more."

Ysa held the woman up and felt her forehead. It was hot. Too hot. Ysadette focused magicka in her hand and frost crept out from the center of her palm, climbing to the tips of her fingers. Casting and maintaining a weak ice spell would do well to soothe her, but she had to be careful or she'd risk freezing her solid instead of simply cooling her off.

The woman's hand shot out and grabbed Ysa by the wrist. She opened her eyes, slowly at first, then wide as terror gripped her.

"I mean you no harm," Ysa said softly and took the bottle that Isro handed to her. "Who are you?"

"Leave us," the woman said, her voice barely a whisper. "Before you get sick as well. You'll die, just like…" she said before coughing up onto the ground and passing out again.

"Please, stay awake and talk with me," Ysa patted the woman on the cheek. It was gaunt. The skin was stretched over her bones and thin. The poor thing had to be starving. "Why are you all sick? What's caused this?"

From the tunnel at the back of the chamber came the sound of footsteps – frantic, unsteady steps – and a cough echoed out before a figure emerged, dimly lit by the candle held above his head. Ysadette recognized his face immediately. By the way his eyes widened, he recognized her as well.

Glodon ripped his dagger out from its sheath and pointed it at her. "You…you're that woman," he said, his face turning white. "The one we met in the woods!"

Ysadette waved her hand behind her back, casting Ironflesh in case he decided to strike. Her skin toughened, the cyan glow spreading across her body, as she approached him with her hands held out. "I do not want to hurt you," she said slowly.

Glodon pushed his hand against his bandaged shoulder and winced. "It's a bit late for that, don't you think?" He stepped carefully, regarding her as if she was a rabid wolf ready to pounce at him. "So, this is how you get back at us? Come and kill us when we're weak? When we're sick? You're terrible."

"I only want my necklace," Ysa said. " If you return it to me…"

"You and that old man killed Linor," he said. Glodon's eyes grew dark and he adopted a wider stance. "You'll get nothing from me. You hear me? Nothing."

Isro stood to his feet, disregarding the groaning Bosmer he'd been caring for a moment earlier. Face stern, he placed his hand on his sword and knocked his gauntlets against the handle as a warning sound.

Ysadette shot Isro a glance and shook her head. "Please. I did not come here for revenge."

"Oh, really?" Glodon said with a laugh. "Then why's your friend armed? That sword for trimming flowers?"

A tickle in Ysa's throat made her cough hard before she could answer his sarcasm.

"Ah, so you've caught it as well?" Glodon said. "How unfortunate."

Ysadette's ears pricked up. "It's nothing," she said, "Only exhaustion. I haven't rested in so long that it has finally taken its toll on me. Now, please, my necklace," she held out her hand and made a gesture. "Then I will leave you be."

Glodon shoved his dagger back into his sheath and sat down on the stone floor, a smirk on his face as he whistled through his missing tooth. "That's a funny way to deal with your impending demise. But if that's what works for you, blaming things that aren't the cause, then by all means," he said. Glodon curled up and shivered before letting out a wet cough. "No, you aren't exhausted. You're sick, same as us. Given enough time," he nodded his head towards Isro, "He will be, too. Everyone you come in contact with will be. That's how the curse works as far as I can tell."

Ysa shivered. "You've been cursed?"

Glodon nodded and placed his head in his hands. "Celdan got us into this mess," he said. "I shouldn't have listened to him. But he'd never steered us wrong before. We tried to rob some old woman on the road a while back. But she wasn't just some old woman at all. She was a witch."

Ysadette's stomach knotted as she let the word "witch" turn stale in the air. Most people she knew would rather believe that old women living in secluded shacks, cavorting with all manner of monsters, were only stories made up to frighten young children into staying at home after dark. But they were wrong. So exceedingly wrong that they didn't even realize it until they were turned into undying thralls by arguably the most powerful mages excluding the undead. Witches were an omen – them and the perverse magic they wielded. "Then my friend, she's an alchemist, she can mix some potions and…"

"You got something in your ears?" Glodon said. "It's a curse. The symptoms can only be held off for so long. Then you'll get sick again, worse than the first time, no matter how much of the stuff you guzzle. Allewen, there," he pointed to the Bosmer woman, "Tried that and you can see how well she's faring."

Ysadette sat on the ground. "Then I must speak with this Celdan you mentioned. Where is he?"

"Dead," Glodon said. "Choked to death in his sleep and we buried him yesterday. If you wanted to speak with him, you should've come with us in the first place."

"Then we need to…" Ysa stopped and bit her tongue before it could start wagging needlessly.

"We need to find the witch!" Glodon mocked in a squeaky voice that was too high-pitched to be a mimic of hers. "That's what you were going to say, wasn't it? Thaum and I tried that yesterday, too. No luck there."

Ysa stood to her feet and looked around the room. If they were going to track a witch, she would need a sufficient idea of what to look for so Clairvoyance would function properly. She would have preferred anyone else's help, anyone at all, but Glodon seemed to be the only one left capable of doing so. "But," she paused, already regretting that she uttered a single word, "You didn't have a mage with you, then. Did you?"

Glodon eyed her, one eyebrow raised skeptically. "What're you suggesting?"

Ysadette crossed her arms. What was she suggesting, actually? Not two days prior had she been held at knifepoint by this same man, now she found herself feeling…sympathetic? Not quite, but she felt something that wasn't utter hatred for him so it was a start. As if for the sake of clarification, her fingers touched the base of her neck and her heart skipped a beat again.

"Exactly what it sounds like," she said. "Whether I wish to admit it or not, I've been involved with your problems now as well. So, you and I are going to locate this witch and somehow convince her to remove the curse. However, I want to make something very clear. Should we not succumb to the curse first, then as payment I want…"

Glodon waved his hand dismissively. "I know, I know. You want your damned necklace."

Ysadette nodded.

Glodon pursed his lips and stood up. He crossed his arms and shrugged with laughter. "Your shoddy jewelry for our lives?" he said. "That's…fair. I was going to sell it for potion money, but seeing as your offering to help us with the curse directly, I win either way."

Even in the dim light of the cavern, Ysadette could see the toothy grin cracking his face apart. It was the kind of smirk that forced her fingers to curl up. The kind that begged her to swing at him with all her might and hope it hurt.

Without uttering a word, Isro grabbed Ysadette by the wrist and yanked her away from the conversation. Ysa beat her fist on his arm, but she doubted he could feel it through the padding of his uniform. He led her back to the mouth of the cavern where Suleh was helping Ulpo into the saddle of one of the horses.

"We need to get Suleh and your Mentor out of here," Isro said.

Ysa wrested her arm free and rubbed the red mark with her thumb. "Don't ever grab me like that!" she said.

Isro scratched his chin. "Sorry," he said, "But listen, if he's telling the truth, then this isn't just about a small group of bandits and your property anymore. How many people did you get close to yesterday on the way to Sis's apothecary?"

"I tried to avoid most people's attention so only a few," Ysa said. "Why would that…" Her heart sank into the bottom of her stomach. How had she not realized it yet? "By Akatosh," she gasped.

"I'd have settled for damn it all," Suleh said.

Isro frowned. "If this disease of theirs spreads around as easily as it did to you, then the whole city might be at risk," he said. "We need to send Sis back to Chorrol and have her brew as many potions as she can in case someone starts showing symptoms. And your Mentor as well. I wager he'll have it worse than us since he's so old."

"But what if the Thalmor arrive earlier than we expect?" Ysa asked. "Do you know what to do if they begin searching the town?"

Suleh pulled herself onto the horse with Ulpo, who locked his arms around her the moment she was situated. "I can handle this," she squeaked as she tried to loosen his grip. "I have a hidey-hole in the back of the apothecary where I store a few vials of, er, _substance._ "

Isro glared at her as if he'd been insulted, but Suleh giggled.

"I'll keep my door locked and the windows shut," Suleh said, "And if anyone comes knocking, I'll toss him down in the hole before I let them inside the apothecary. It's a bit on the small side, but so is he. Oughta be fine."

"What about you, Isro?" Ysa asked, nodding at him. "Are you going with them?"

Isro crossed his arms. "Not a chance," he said. "I'm not leaving you alone with a band of outlaws – sick or otherwise. And I'm definitely not going to let you run off to face a witch without any backup."

"So that settles it, doesn't it?" Suleh asked as she took the reins in her hands. "I'll head back to be on sick-watch while the two of you track down our warty cauldron-stirrer and make her wish she'd never done any witching."

Ulpo looked at Ysadette, his face smashed against Suleh's back with a wide grin pushing his cheeks up until his eyes were thin lines. Even if it was due to madness, there was peace behind it. The thought of that face being twisted in agony like the ones inside Silverbank Mine wanted her to let him go, but the fear of that being the last sight she'd have of him made her fingers twitch – ready to grab him by the arm and pull him back to her side. Where he was safe.

 _Except he's not. He never has been. Not with you._

Her own words stung – tiny flames licking at a wound that hadn't healed, prickling underneath her skin to remind her of it. Adrenaline charged through her, tightening her muscles until she felt like a string pulled too tight. The panic. It was happening again. Leaving. Losing.

Alone.

"Yes," she choked out to shut up the fear preying on her silent self-torture. Engorging itself on it. "That settles it."

Suleh took the bag from her shoulder containing several more potions and handed it to Isro. She wiggled and looked over her shoulder at Ulpo, then coaxed the horse to ride away, chattering on in her usual senseless manner.

Ysa dug her heels into the muddy ground in an attempt to keep herself steady she figured vain. She rocked back and forth wringing her soggy hands until the bones in her fingers ached.

 _Calm down. You've gotten yourself this far by taking risks._ Ysadette pulled down a ragged breath. _What's another if it keeps him safe?_

She didn't look away, she didn't dare try until Suleh and Ulpo disappeared into the mists of the forest. Out of sight. Never out of mind. She could settle for that, though.

"You can trust us," Isro said. "This isn't the first time we've had to deal with the Dominion." He settled his hand on the hilt of his sword, his fingers clenching as if they were around someone's throat. "And if the worst happens. I won't stand and watch this time. I'm not that same boy hiding behind his big sister anymore."

"I know," Ysa breathed. "I just hope I haven't brought them to your doorstep all over again."


	10. The Madam

10

.~~~.

Mytho wondered why he expected any different from her. In her own twisted way, she seemed to take pleasure in being chased by someone, whether they were enraged or simply lustful. She glided through the crowds, occasionally peeking over her shoulder at him as if to ensure that she hadn't forgotten how to lure him in. Mytho rounded the street corner, catching sight of her eyes looking sideways at him before she sauntered into an alleyway between two multi-floored mansions. He wondered if it was the time they'd time spent apart that made her more alluring or if she had indeed found a new means of enchanting him. Either way, tailing her made it feel as if it had been a lifetime since they'd engaged in their game of cat and mouse.

When he entered the alley, she'd begun to scale the sides of the mansions, working her way to the rooftops. She stopped for a moment and glanced down at him. With a mocking, sideways grin, unchanged in all the time he'd known her, she kicked a plant off the windowsill.

Mytho caught the flowerpot to stop it from shattering on the ground and shook his head. He looked up and watched her leap from one wall to the other and crawl over the edge of the building, disappearing from sight. Mytho pulled himself up on the lowest windowsill. He cursed the aching stiffness in his back and the weight of his weaponry that made the climb more strenuous than it needed to be.

"You've gotten slow," she said as he hauled himself over the ledge and onto the rooftop.

"I have not," Mytho said, running his thumb along the scuffs and dust he'd found on his coat. "You've just got the advantage, Halora."

"Of age?"

"Of not being stiff from riding on horseback for the past two days," Mytho said, massaging his spine with both hands. "And you're not any younger than I am. Don't think I haven't noticed those tiny wrinkles underneath your eyes."

Halora traced her fingertips along the rim of her eye, her lips falling into a frown. "They must be getting bad if even you can tell," she said. "I'll have to do something about them." She circled around him, hand tucked underneath her chin and eyes wandering up and down.

"If I didn't know any better," he said, "I'd think you were trying to undress me with your eyes."

Halora waved a dismissive hand and shook her head. "I'm only wondering if you are indeed wearing the same outfit that you had on last time we were on a job together." She dragged a finger over his shoulder and squinted hard at the soot leftover from his visit to the Gray Forest. "And wouldn't you know it? You probably haven't washed it since then, either."

Mytho sighed. "Ah, how I missed your jabs, love."

Halora folded her arms and narrowed her eyes at Mytho, working her jaw back and forth. "Is that what brought you to Skingrad?" she asked. "Has the Phantom of Bravil finally given into his longing?"

Mytho slipped his arm around her waist. Her subtle fragrance, barely imperceptible when put against the aroma of grape and wine in the air of the city, made him feel a tinge of yearning he'd forgotten about. Nostalgia. Rather, he'd buried it and hoped it'd be smothered. "If, by chance, he did," Mytho said, "Would you humor him for a bit?"

Halora put her hand around the back of his head, running her fingers through his hair and looking at up at him with her sharpened, brown eyes. For a moment, her lip quivered, the harshness of her demeanor at the point of breaking, but she slipped out of his grasp and paced along the rooftop. "Maybe," Halora said, "But only if his stories are worth listening to."

Mytho shrugged. "Where should I begin?"

Halora perched on the edge of the building, overlooking the city with a hard expression. "You could start by explaining why you harassed Toren," she said, "And interrupted my attempt at recruiting him into the Guild."

"Er, my apologies." Mytho scratched at the back of his neck. "I've been contracted," he said, "By the type of man that doesn't understand the definition of the word 'no.' I'd have turned the bastard down, but rumors and a gut feeling tells me that trying to run will end with a blade in my back. If he's feeling generous, that is." Mytho sat on the ledge beside her and let his legs hang over the side of the building. "Wants me to track down some lass and her teacher. Same ones that caused that fire near Kvatch, if you can believe it."

Halora's laugh was absent of humor. "And you took out your frustration on that poor boy?"

"I _fed_ him," Mytho said. "And paid him in advance for a lead on someone else in town. What kind of man do you take me for?"

"Not the kind you pretend to be," she said. "But continue, please. I'm dying to hear how you've dug yourself a grave this time."

Mytho sighed. Prickly as ever. "I followed their trail to the Gray Forest," he said. "All I found was a damn book that I can't pry open no matter what I do, though. So, without much else to go on, I came to Skingrad to look for another lead. Now I've found myself in another predicament because Toren's information points me to Ilawe, one of the Count's servants."

"So you need a way into the Castle, then," Halora muttered. "I see how that'll be an issue."

"It's not the getting in I'm worried about," Mytho said, "It's the getting out once I have what I need. Things could get rather messy before I have a chance to tie up loose ends and skip town."

Halora's eyes dug into him, burning him with their weaponized scrutiny. "Unless you've gotten rusty then you could tear your way in and out of the castle in a night," she said. "What's a few bodies to you?"

"A means to an end if circumstance makes them that way," Mytho said. "A means of making sure mine isn't tossed in a shallow hole before I'm good and ready." He looked back at her, meeting her glare. "And a means of rooting out traitors before they have the chance to hurt someone. But is that the Guild talking or Halora?"

"A bit of both," she said and stood up. She paced around the rooftop, unbothered by the howling wind, clicking her tongue as if she feared stagnant silence. "Murder and mayhem have their place, but we've already agreed to disagree on the proper time for them. Is that the only option you have?"

"I know it's not ideal, but I don't have time to be careful," Mytho said. "The longer I wait, the larger the gap between me and my targets grows. I'd place my coin on him catching them eventually, but if it's not by my hands, then it won't just be their heads rolling." The still-healing scrapes and bruises on his face ached. "It'll be mine as well."

Halora stopped pacing and, for the first time in the conversation, a sliver of genuine concern made itself known in her expression. "Who in Oblivion have you pissed off?" she asked slowly.

"You'd prefer not to know," Mytho said. "Trust me. And if you care enough to be worried, then it'll only keep you awake at night."

"I watch the streets after dark," she said. "I don't have time to sleep much anymore, but fine. Keep your secrets. You always have."

At last, she allowed silence to be exchanged between them. However, he knew that silence had its own language.

"How's the Guild doing, by the way?" Mytho asked, growing uncomfortable with the lack of words. "Things were in a tizzy last time I was here."

Halora stopped pacing and shook her head. "Not as well as we were, unfortunately," she said. "The new Guildmaster does his job well enough. He's skilled and careful enough to avoid the guards' attention, but we've been having issues with a damned vigilante recently. None of the Informants have any idea who he is or where he's come from, but it's like we can't run a proper job at night anymore without him popping up and making a mess of the whole thing."

"Awfully brave of him."

Her brow furrowed deeply to join her sinking frown. "He's not just brave. He's dangerous," she said. "One of our Shadowfoots, Dahlin-Dar, was pulling a sweep job for me a month ago and had a run-in with him." Halora narrowed her eyes on the street. "It was a damn bloodbath. Couldn't even draw his knife before he was struck down."

Being overwhelmed that easily was something Mytho would expect to hear about a young Footpad. Not about an experienced thief one step below being called Master. "Any plans to deal with him or are you just going to let him make a fool of you?"

"That was another reason I was strolling around town," she said. "Someone poked their head into the Guild hideout a little bit ago, saying that someone they didn't recognize was in Skingrad. Imagine my surprise when this stranger isn't that strange after all." She tugged at the knife hanging around her waist and twirled it around her fingers, the steel glinting in the sunlight. "I should've figured it was you."

"Coming to sweep you off your feet again like I did years ago?" Mytho said.

Halora laughed again and tossed the knife in the air. With a single motion, she caught it by the handle and shoved it back into its sheath. "More like coming to make things complicated," she said. "Coming to get yourself involved with as much trouble as you can manage."

"I've always had a nose for conflict," Mytho said. Noting the guard that had glanced up at the sky, Mytho slipped back from the ledge. "You know this is a strange way of asking for my help, don't you?"

Halora's eyes rolled like they were trying to escape their sockets. "By the sound of it, you need my help more than I need yours."

"I can handle my business," Mytho said, jabbing his thumb at his chest. "It's yours I'm worried about. From what I'm hearing, you've been so focused on finding this vigilante but you haven't any idea what to do when you've got him in your grasp."

"The Guild doesn't kill," Halora said. "We coerce. We scheme. We strike deals beneficial to us and the other party and run a clean operation. It's what sets us apart from common bandits." She gnawed on her lip and stopped her aimless wandering. "Everyone has a price. We just need to find his."

Mytho crossed his arms and walked to the other end of the rooftop. "And if you find that he can't be reasoned with, you'll have no other choice but to hope he grows tired of slaughtering your guildmates seeing as the only living member of the Dark Brotherhood in Cyrodiil already has hung up her cowl for good."

The silence that she offered in response was seething – her gaze, damning.

"You've finally been to see her, then?" she said, at last. "Took you long enough. Or did you just slip in and take your gear back without bothering to explain yourself? The poor girl thought you hated her, you know."

Mytho shoved his hands into the pockets of his coat to keep from reeling. "We can sit down later and have a chat about Aressia. As long as you like," he said. He stepped over the edge of the building and twisted around to grab the hanging wall decorations before he could fall. "You've a sharper eye than mine, Hallie. You know when your hands are tied."

Mytho looked down to brace his foot against the wall. A moment before his vision was filled with gray stone, Halora leaped off the opposite edge of the building, purposefully taking a different way than he did.

.~~~.

 _He's the same as always_ , Halora thought to herself as she made her way across the High Town district. _Frustrating._ A moment longer and she might've sincerely offered to help him with his job, but both a hunch and prior experience with him told her that he'd turn her down. An action like that would mean he wasn't his own boss for once.

Halora tugged her hood over her face and glanced at the guards patrolling the street, waiting for someone to garner their attention so she could pass unnoticed. She turned down a street and continued to move, not wanting to loiter for too long when her drab clothes screamed that she didn't belong among the nobility. It wouldn't do for a Doyen of the Thieves Guild to be spotted outside of her element.

Sticking to the shadows cast by the sun moving behind the towering mansions, Halora pushed through the crowded streets, approaching the very street that Dahlin-Dar had been killed on. Within fifteen minutes of being alerted to his death, she'd descended on the place to gather any evidence she could before the guards cleaned up the mess, but now she was feeling as if she needed to refresh herself on the facts.

As Halora stood motionless in the crowd, watching them walk over the spot he'd been struck down, it was as if she could still see his mangled body lying there, fur matted with sticky, red blood. The splatters on the walls and the gashes left behind by either Dahlin-Dar or the vigilante were cleaned and patched, as expected. It was entirely possible that no one in the city knew there had been a murder besides the Guild and the guards. Or maybe they did but were trying to pretend that every city, including Skingrad, didn't have a stain that couldn't be washed clean.

Halora, though, could never forget what she saw that night. Dahlin-Dar, as a Khajiit, had all the keen senses of a cat. While he was still in training, he claimed and proved that he could pick out her distinct scent among the rest of the Guild and track her on that alone – even when she'd slipped out from said crowd. That was when she'd experienced firsthand his second and equally useful ability; his hearing With ears like his, he knew when someone coming to the hideout before anyone else and warned them if someone sounded like trouble.

That was what unnerved Halora about his murder. The killing blow came from behind, suggesting the vigilante had sneaked up on him. Her question was how he'd managed such a feat.

The sternly worded note left on Dahlin-Dar's body, stuck to him with the knife in his spine, didn't offer anything helpful in that regard. It did establish a motive, however.

" _These are my people,"_ it read, the ink smudged with blood. _"Under my protection. If you wish to live out the rest of your lives, you'll cease your thievery for good."_

The threat was left unsigned as if the author knew that something so minuscule as a first initial would help the Informants sniff him out. There hadn't been another murder since then, but every member in the Guild had caught him following them at some point, waiting for them to make a false move so he could strike.

Halora's stomach soured. True to his word, he'd waited for the proper justification. As long as they only skulked about in the darkness, he'd leave them be. But it didn't make the insult to both the Guild's pride and hers any more palatable.

Seeing that there wasn't a reason to linger, Halora continued towards the false shop the Thieves Guild used as a front to their operations.

Mytho, of course, wasn't there waiting for her, sideways smirk welcoming her home like he wouldn't be chased out of town if he set foot inside without her express permission. She wasn't surprised.

If she knew anything about the man it was that he was a stubborn fool in every possible way. Most thought him an egotist, but they were only partially correct in that judgment. His obsession with his dubious idea of freedom dominated his choices and it was a liability he clearly hadn't mitigated since they'd last spoken. If a course of action looked remotely as if he'd lose even the slightest degree of autonomy, he'd choose another despite being objectively worse.

Halora entered the windowless store and shut the door behind her.

Luciros, the man posing as the shopkeeper, looked up at her in that unconcerned manner that he did to everyone that came to the shop – member or not. "Welcome back, Madam Doyen," he said before turning his attention back to the newspaper in his hand. "Was it him?"

Halora sighed and put her elbows on the counter. "No, I know it wasn't. Just an old…" She bit her tongue, catching the first, more instinctual word that tried to jump out. "It was an old associate of mine slinking about."

"I see," he said. Luciros placed the page on the counter and pushed it over to her. "Forgive me, then. Not to make matters worse, ma'am, but things are indeed getting worse."

Halora took the newspaper and read the headline, grimacing as she skimmed over the text, sure that she knew what it said already. Her fingers crumpled around the page, heat growing in her chest as she found herself wanting to spit every curse she could think of.

"He's becoming a bit of a folk hero," Luciros said. "We haven't had a successful job ever since he killed Dahlin-Dar. The city is beginning to take notice of both his presence and our absence."

"I knew they would connect the dots eventually, but this soon?" Halora said. "Have we really fallen so far that they don't fear us anymore? Decades of being uncontested in the city, undone in a matter of weeks?" When Luciros shrugged, Halora gnawed on her lip until it hurt and read over the paper again.

" _A New Guardian?"_ the newspaper read, almost as if it were written for the sake of taunting them. _"Crimes at an all-time low! Thieves Guild on the defensive!"_

It was disgusting. It was humiliating. The fact that the newspaper was, for once, not filled with meaningless gossip made the indignity sting twice as much. The Guild had the darkness in a stranglehold since the days of the Gray Fox, but now the shadows were betraying them, instead choosing to give their strength to a prowling beast that no one could neither name nor recognize. They were being hunted, and not just by the bumbling guardsmen as always, but by someone who made them look like simple children playing pranks and not the professionals they were.

"We'll figure something out," Luciros said as he took the newspaper back. "We've survived a near collapse in the past. This, by my comparison, is just an inconvenience."

Halora pushed off from the counter and looked around the shop. Their safety, their entire operation, depended on that place. But if the vigilante was intent on bringing them to their knees, the walls of the fake shop would soon welcome a new visitor and the hideout would get a fresh, red coat of her blood soon after. He'd find them, one way or another if things progressed. "I'm not worried about that," she said. "I'm only worried about what it will cost us to bring him down. We can't continue throwing bodies at him, hoping that by some miracle we gain the upper hand by numbers alone."

"Perhaps not," Luciros said. "But that could be because numbers mean little to someone who can tell they're little more than a show."

Halora stopped pacing around the room and eyed the boorish Imperial. "Are you suggesting that our members are not capable?"

"No," Luciros said without changing the tone of his voice. "All of us are experienced in sneaking and persuasion, skills we encourage the use of above all others, but few are in much beyond that. What we need are more people who are skilled in open combat."

Halora paced around the room again. "Besides myself," she began, "We have Ra'hur. But last I heard, he's still on that job in the Imperial City, so I have no idea when he'll return. We may as well not count him."

"Such is the way of the Guildmaster," Luciros said.

"There are a few talented Prowlers," she said. "I'd rather not send them against a threat this large, though. And the lower ranking thieves may not be able to do much."

"I agree," Luciros said, his voice low. "However, sending you against the vigilante alone would be a grave mistake. Not to doubt your prowess, Madam, but if the Guild lost you, then we need not worry about any killers bringing our operation to a halt. We'd simply collapse without your guidance."

Halora ran her fingers through her hair and scratched her aching head. "Nonsense," she said, "You'd find a way, wouldn't you?"

Luciros made a face that wasn't quite disgruntled but was less plain than usual. "I like to imagine I would, ma'am," he said. "But I shudder at the thought of finding out my imagination poorly reflects reality. And between you and I, the idea of Ra'hur having full authority over the Guild is even less desirable."

Halora exhaled to mask the chill trying to make her body tremble. "You'd best keep thoughts like those to yourself," she said. "For your own good. Most of the elder members are still sore from that last time someone took issue with the Guildmaster."

Luciros was preparing to say something, but he shut his mouth again and nodded towards the door. "Someone's coming this way," he said in a hushed tone. "Door's still unlocked."

Halora unsheathed the dagger hanging around her waist and stood next to the doorway, hidden by the shadows. "Remind me to thank you for those magic traps you set on the road outside," she said, gripping the handle of her knife tight.

The door swung open, filling the room with the sound of chattering people and blinding white light. Halora swept out from the darkness, dagger ready to plunge into the visitor's throat if they made a move.

Mytho, with barely a glance, caught her by the wrist and chuckled as the door shut itself behind him. "That's surprising," he said. "I think I prefer to be greeted this way as opposed to chasing you. It comes to an end quicker and I don't have to get so sweaty."

Halora pulled away and shoved her dagger back into its sheath. "Then we're both surprised," she said. "I figured the next time I heard of you, it'd be because you either cut down half the guards to get your man or got ran through by one of them."

"And you would've been correct," Mytho said as he leaned against the counter as if he were a regular visitor. "If you hadn't scurried away looking so forlorn about this vigilante character. I thought I would pop in and see how I could lend my aid, at the very least."

"I think we…" Halora began before shutting her flapping mouth. A few moments before, she was just shy of asking Nocturnal for her blessing. It'd be rude to turn away such a blessing if it was indeed wrapped in a bothersome package like the man sizing up Luciros. "Could use your help," she said, growling under her breath.

"Hold on," Mytho said. "I want to make myself clear, first. I'm not abandoning my own job to solve your troubles. If and when I have the information I need, I'm leaving the city immediately. Dead vigilante or not." Mytho swiped a pear from one of the boxes and bit into it. "Deal?" he said with a full mouth and juice running down his chin.

As expected, he was trying to act like he was in control of the situation enough to be relaxed. Halora took the pear and tossed it into the bin. "The way I see it," she said, "You need my help if you want your lead. You admitted it yourself; you're not worried about finding your man, you're worried about escaping. You need either a better plan or more bodies to move. Probably both."

"Excellent. Then we've reached an understanding," he said, unfazed as he marched towards the stairwell that led the second floor of the shop. "Let's not tarry and get to work."

Halora glared at Luciros, swearing she heard the smallest laugh escape him. He shrugged at her and went back to his masquerade as a humble shopkeeper. She let out a huff and chased after Mytho before he could go too far unattended.

"That's a chipper man you've got out front," Mytho said as they started up the creaky stairs. "He seems rather experienced at being dull. Did you suck the life out of him as well?"

 _Right back to the sarcasm._ "I only do that to the people that need it," Halora said. "Like self-absorbed duelists with a paralyzing fear of commitment."

"Huh. So what does it mean when you toss flowerpots at someone?"

"Oh, stop it," she swatted at his back. "It didn't even scratch you. I'd have hit my mark if I wanted."

Mytho stepped onto the second floor and turned around the corner, humming a tune. "Is it truly the best that we meet in the hideout?" he asked. "We could do our naughty scheming elsewhere. Perhaps over dinner?"

Halora humored him with a false laugh. "A good effort," she said. "But, no. Besides, it ought to be empty at this time of day. Everyone left to work this morning."

"Like the good little drones they are," Mytho said in a lilting tone.

They entered the upstairs room. In every way, it appeared to be a bedroom meant for guests, but it had gone unused since the building was constructed. Mytho put his ear to the wall and knocked his fist against it. He stepped back and put his hands on his swords, looking up and down with a furrowed brow.

"We don't take the panel off anymore," Halora said and pointed. "You see that sconce there?"

Mytho spun around and looked at where her she was pointing.

"There's a button underneath it. The whole thing comes off."

After he removed the sconce, Mytho looked over at her, smiled wide and jabbed his thumb against the button triumphantly.

The wooden panel rattled and slid to the side, revealing a hidden passageway leading downwards, much further below the shop despite the entrance being above. It was deceptive, and not what most would expect, precisely the reason she had it done that way.

Mytho bounded into the darkness, letting out an enthused whoop as he disappeared from her view.

"It's just a damned tunnel," she called out, hearing her voice echo down the passage. "Don't get so excited."

"It's a hidden one!" Mytho shouted back. "Much more exciting than a damned one!"

 _What have I done?_ Halora thought as she followed him deeper into the earth, the air around them growing moist and cold as they went further away from the warmth of the sun above. As they went deeper, she whispered a silent prayer that the Guild was indeed empty like as she said. If not, she'd spend the next few days explaining to each one of her guildmates why she'd brought _him_ back into the hideout.

The leather of her boots squeaked against the shined floor and she looked down to see her reflection staring back up at her. The sight was something Halora took pride in. To her, it made no sense for their home to be as dirty as their deeds.

Mytho strutted across the sanctum, leaving a trail of soot on the ground as he made his way to the round sitting area in the middle. "Nice place you've got," Mytho said as he dropped into the sunken-in sitting area. He sat on the circular seat and put his feet up on the table in the middle. "Last time I was here, you were still lighting the place with wall torches and not chandeliers. And this chair doesn't hurt my arse like that last one did."

Halora dropped into the seat next to him, wincing as she imagined the stains he'd be leaving behind. "You can admire my designing later," she said. "We've both things to worry about and it would be best to conduct business first."

"Then pleasure?"

Halora jabbed her finger against his chest and looked him dead in the eyes. "Don't push it."

He lowered his chin and laughed. "Have it your way, then," he said. "I thought about something on the way over here, anyway. A method of dealing with your faceless murderer."

"Oh?"

He nodded. "Aye. Let me ask you something. Have you been sending your underlings alone at night, or in groups?"

Halora shook her head and motioned to the map of Skingrad pinned to the surface of the table. "Have you seen the size of the city? We'd never accomplish anything if we paired up for each job. It's inefficient. Everyone is responsible for themselves and only themselves, just as it's always been."

Mytho wagged a finger. "And when they run into the vigilante?" he asked, a smirk spreading across his dirty face. "What do they do then?"

"I've ordered them to come back to the hideout," she said. "I care about filling our purses until they're fit to burst, but no amount of coin is worth their lives to me."

"Have you thought of sending everyone out at once?" he asked.

Halora put her hands on the table. "Of course I haven't," she said. "Not only would the castle guard catch on that a large-scale operation is taking place, which would cause them to put the city on lockdown, but that would also leave the Guild unattended. There's no telling what could happen while we're gone. We might come back to find our coffers emptied."

Mytho pointed his finger at the red mark where Dahlin-Dar's body had been found. "And the sightings after this one here? Have there been more than one at a time?"

"No," she said. "What's your point?"

Mytho sat forward and drummed his hands on the table. "He's one man, Hallie," he said. "Meaning, he can only be in one place at a time. If you had enough people, we could wait for him to pop up then have the whole force converge on him at once."

Halora sighed and stood up. "Luciros already thought of that," she said. "Outnumbering him doesn't matter when he can kill most of the Guild's members without trying. And did you miss the part about the guards? They'll even the numbers back out in the end. Whatever your scheme is, it's idiotic."

Mytho strode around in her way. "Ah, but what if they had a bigger target to pursue? One that'd prevent them from worrying about your Guild's little caper?"

Halora looked him over. "You mean yourself?"

He turned his nose up and puffed out his chest. "Naturally," Mytho said. "Even the Thalmor want my head nowadays. Skingrad would fall over itself to make a big show of lopping it off. I could stir up a ruckus at the castle after I find Ilawe, announce myself in a big way to distract the guards, and you and your cohorts could use that opportunity to deal with your assassin."

Halora shoved him aside. "Don't patronize me," she said. "I know this is just so you can live out your childish fantasies about being the new Gray Fox."

He swirled around her again, moving like a shroud of black that followed her closer than her own reflection. "Aye, but then we'd both get what we want," he said. "You can enact your bloodless revenge on him without interruption and I can get the satisfaction of knowing I'm wanted."

Halora crossed her arms and glared up at his obnoxious, smirking face. "It won't be bloodless," she hissed. "Whoever he descends on first will be as good as dead before the rest of us can reach them. And I will not sacrifice a single person."

Mytho's face twitched for a moment, his smirk wilting, but it bloomed again as if nothing had happened. "Then as I said; send them in pairs. Tell them to be on the defensive and avoid engaging him directly. If possible, lead him in circles to buy time."

Halora tightened her lips, grimly intrigued at his plan. It was just his style – chaotic and without shame – but she'd not deny it was effective. Along with being stupid, pretentious and remarkably grating to her. "One problem, though," she said, "With the Guildmaster still away on business, we have an odd number. One of us will have to go alone."

"Aye, you would. Unless you recruit Toren," Mytho said. "That'll balance them out."

Halora hesitated for a moment, hoping that it was a cruel joke. "Recruit the poor boy and send him out to die?" she asked. "I don't know if he even knows how to hold a blade correctly, let alone has the stones to stand and fight! You can't be serious!"

Mytho's face hardened, but he said nothing.

Halora shook her head and brushed past him. Her own warped reflection on the ground stared back at her, his a pitch black shadow looming over her. Trying to cover her. "I guess I shouldn't expect anything more from you," she muttered. "Everyone is disposable to you. Just another pawn in this big game you've been playing."

Halora walked away - permitted by him at last as he stood immobile - the padding of her footsteps almost inaudible between them. Her hand twitched as she found the urge to slap him growing, overwhelming her. Foul words buried deep inside for too long crawled to the surface, full of life and hot enough to sting the back of her throat. He deserved every damn one of them. More than that.

"I've never thought of you as a pawn," Mytho said just before she was able to reach the passageway. "Not even once."

Halora stopped and looked over her shoulder at him. His words didn't make her angrier as she expected – as she wanted them to – but there was something about them that reached into her and battered her heart in a way that left her exhausted. It always did. "That's what you've always told me," she said, feeling as if the sentence took her breath away. "And you told her that, too."


	11. Falsities and the Like

11

.~~~.

"You she-devil!" Glodon shouted. "I'd agree to anything if it would save us! But this?" He gestured to the burial mound that Isro was standing above – shovel in his hand and ready to dig. "Making a mockery of Celdan's grave is going too far!"

Ysadette expected that kind of reaction. She understood it, actually. "I wish there was another way," she said. "However, seeing as you've been unable to recall anything about our witch, we don't have many other viable options. The longer we deliberate over which method is best, the more difficult this will be. Any lingering magicka that she may have left behind will continue to dissipate, leaving me without a trail to follow."

Glodon ran his hands over his head and turned away from her. "Just let me think for a few minutes and maybe I'll…"

Ysadette coughed into her hand. She had been patient with him, but it was already two hours past midday. Daylight was burning fast and she doubted that either of them would be in a state fit for travel if they let sun set. Let alone face down a witch, should she fail in negotiating with her. "Do you have any idea what resurrecting a body involves?" Ysa asked. "It's not a simple process and it takes a lot of magicka to perform."

Glodon turned his head around and glared at her with the kind of disdain Ysadette had become accustomed to. "No, I don't. But I'm sure it's something awful," he said. "All you mages are like that. You don't care about being decent! About respecting people!"

"And stealing from random travelers in the woods is among the things you consider decent and respectful?" Ysa asked as she chewed on the insults building on the tip of her tongue. "Either way, you haven't any right to lecture me considering you've gotten not only yourself into this mess, but perhaps many innocent people as well. Unless you can focus, Celdan will have to help us instead."

Glodon's hand fidgeted next to his dagger again. His face twisted into a sneer – the gap showing where his tooth should've been. "Then what are you waiting for?" he asked, his voice a low growl. "My blessing to defile his corpse?"

Ysadette shook her head. "Your permission."

Glodon buried his face in his hands and let out a sigh so loud she could hear the phlegm in his throat. "Fine," he muttered, "Do it."

She nodded at Isro, who plunged the shovel into the dirt without a word.

Glodon took his place beside her, his eyes cast down at the grave. "How does this even work, huh?" he asked. "How do you intend to speak with a corpse?"

"The only way we can," Ysa said. "A soul must be present for any manner of life, but since Celdan's has long departed, I'll need to supply something in its place."

Glodon's expression was vacant. On some of his best days, Ulpo was more mindful, it seemed.

"To accomplish this, I'm going to channel a large portion my own magicka into his body," Ysa said. "Once I have enough, I'll use it to act as an imitation of a soul, allowing me to reanimate him. At that point, however, I will not be able to do much besides sit quietly."

"How so?" Glodon asked.

"Necromancy is a very demanding School to practice," Ysa said. "I'd not count myself skilled in it, either. Some experienced necromancers can go about their business without any trouble, but I'll need to focus to prevent the body from turning to dust."

"I don't like it. Isn't this blasphemy of some sort?" Glodon said, whistling through his missing tooth.

"The Mages Guild seemed to think so during the Third Era," Ysa said. "To the point of publicly condemning the practice. However, considering they formally dissolved long before any of us were born, I believe we'll have nothing to worry about."

"They had a point. It was your kind that caused the Oblivion Crisis, wasn't it?" Glodon said.

"If blaming the whole mage community for the actions of a small Daedric cult makes us responsible, then yes," Ysa said. "Which reminds me, what do you know of witches?"

"They, uh…" Glodon stammered, "They're what you Breton women turn into when you get old, aren't they?"

Ysa glared at him. "I'm afraid not," she said. "They're typically devout Daedra worshipers, which is why they prefer secluded places like caves and shacks in the woods. They're essentially free from the prying eyes of the Vigilant of Stendarr."

Glodon nodded, silently listening.

"There was once a coven based in High Rock, the Glenmoril Wyrd, who were followers of Hircine, Prince of the Hunt," Ysa continued. "However, they weren't thoroughly wicked. Some were even helpful, going so far as to cure many unwilling lycanthropes so they wouldn't be forced into an eternal hunt."

"Could you explain why that matters to us now?" Glodon asked.

"Because I suspect this witch we're dealing with is similar," Ysa said. "Much like the Glenmoril witches, her ability to manifest curses would suggest she has the ear of a Prince. In turn, she would have the means to remove the curse should she feel compelled to do so. As for the manner of the curse, all manner of disease is often associated with Peryite, Lord of Pestilence."

Glodon stepped away from her, squinting severely. "You seem to know quite a bit about Daedra," he said. "More than someone ought to."

"I, er, _dabbled_ in quite a few things when I was a girl," Ysa said. "The sorts of things that my mother wouldn't have been thrilled knowing about. Curiosity superseded any sort of proper judgment, unfortunately."

Glodon poorly hid the repulsion written on his face. "Sounds like you'd end up on a chopping block to me," he said.

"If I were in Cyrodiil at the time, then I likely would have," Ysa said. "High Rock, however, isn't quite as conservative when it comes to things arcane in nature. It also helped that I lived in a tiny village that wasn't drawn on any maps."

Isro grunted as he dumped a load of dirt onto the pile and wiped his arm across his forehead. He stepped back and revealed Celdan's ghastly body curled up in the grave.

"He doesn't look like he'd be able to speak to us," Glodon said, covering his mouth. "Isn't any color left in him."

Ysa stepped around the edge of the mound and looked over the corpse. "I once read that the stage of decomposition only affects the awareness of the raised body," Ysa said. "Not the viability. So, considering he's only been dead for the better part of two days, his body should be fairly sentient."

Glodon tensed up. "Do you mean he'll know what's happening?" he said.

"I know how appalling it sounds, but this is a good thing for us," Ysa said. "If we'd waited too long, the only thing he would be capable of doing is moaning at us."

Glodon knelt in front of the burial mound and hunched over, his eyes hauntingly wide. "Will he be in pain?" he asked barely above a whisper.

"If it were immediately after death, then yes," Ysa said. "At this point, though, it's highly unlikely. A bit chilly, perhaps, but otherwise numb."

His short, breath-like chuckle was starved of happiness. Glodon sat back on his heels and balled his fists on the ground, gathering a fistful of grass and dirt. "Dammit Cel, how'd it end up like this?" he muttered and hung his head.

"Do you need a moment?" Ysa asked, "I understand if…"

He shook his head and sighed raggedly. "Let's just get this done," Glodon said as he stood up. "While I still have the stomach for it."

Ysa watched him slink away – his eyes dark and sorrowful before took her place in front of the grave.

With a deep breath, she clasped her hands tightly and let the flow of magicka inside her well up. Ysadette envisioned it reaching across the gap from her fingertips to the corpse in front of her. The energy gathered into a blue swirl, shaping itself.

She took another deep breath and fell deep into a trance to hold together the frayed ends.

An unfamiliar voice spoke in a garbled language with the two she knew. Whispers between them filled the blackness, but none of it was coherent to her.

Then it began. The icy touch of the grave crept into her. The endless void enveloped her – begged her to lose herself in a place without end. She knew that place. But Ysa heard the beating of her own heart in the silence, acting as the trail to lead her back. As long as she didn't forget what mattered the most, she could find her way.

 _Don't lose yourself. Stay anchored._

Ba-bump. Ba-bump.

.~~~.

Ysadette clawed at the windowsill of the townhouse as another tremor tossed the city to the side. It crashed to a stop. She slammed against the wall shoulder first. Vein-like cracks spread over the paved streets, climbing fast up the foundations and walls of buildings around her. Then, the tremors it stopped. There was an opportunity. She sucked down a shallow breath, locked her teeth together and sprinted down the street, anticipating another to strike at any time. Cries for divine protection filled the air between the booming vibrations. There had never been an earthquake like this one in Anvil. And they knew it.

A pebble on the ground quivered and leaped up at her. It was coming. With no other option, Ysadette locked her arms around a lamppost. The decorations hanging from the top bounced and swung around, throwing flower petals down at her. Ysa looked back to see the ground twisting up to meet her. It was so close she could reach out and touch it. While standing up. It flopped down again, shattering the stone with an ear-splitting crackle. Calm again. Another opportunity that she wasted no time taking.

Ysadette shouldn't have been running, especially not to the heart of whatever in the name of Akatosh was going on. The heaviness in her chest building as she stumbled her way across town told her she already knew was happening. But she had to go. If not to put a stop to it than to keep her mind too busy to fashion horrid ideas of what happened to Andard after she left him at the docks.

She spat curses at herself. She should've stayed. Without her there to keep him safe…

A streak of red leaped into the sky like a bolt of lightning going the wrong way. It came from the Chapelgate District.

From her home.

A light flashed from her window as she neared the entrance. She elbowed the door open just as a tremor worse than the others bowled her over. Ysa held her head up and looked at the disarray she'd come home to. Her books were thrown around, pages folded to her dismay, her chairs overturned and her flowers spilled in the floor. And in the middle of it all was what she feared, but expected.

The tremors, the destruction, they were her Mentor's doing.

Crimson tendrils, glowing and hot like coals, lashed out from Ulpo's chest. Wisps of the same color circled the room, pulsating with each rhythmic thump. She could taste the magic of it around her. Bitter. Sour. Like everything foul in the world had been mixed together into one sickening miasma.

"Mentor!" Ysa shouted, "Ulpo! Please!"

He shot a look at her, eyes ablaze in an unsullied white. His face was mild, but there was a tinge of fury so close to the surface that Ysa was afraid he'd turn her to mist.

She swallowed hard and dared to yell again. "Stop!"

Her vision filled with deep red and she screamed. She heard the glass of the window shatter when it burst out into the street, one final tremor rattling the structure of her home with a deep roar. It rolled across the city, hurrying to die in the hills beyond the walls.

Then, as if nothing had happened, there came a stillness. The sides of Ysa's head were throbbing, but otherwise, it was silent. She rolled over with a groan and winced at the flaring knots in her muscles.

The soft padding of Ulpo's slippers on the floor approached her, but something about them was different. If she hadn't seen him already, she would have believed it was someone else walking towards her by the gait alone. Each step was steadily placed, lacking the feebleness that came with age but with the strength and intention of a much younger man. A face came into her view, but it wasn't Ulpo that stood above her. It was a face that shared his sharp angles and lines, and it was looking down at her with tired, darkened eyes.

He knelt down, slipped a wiry arm between her back and the floor, and held her. He looked over her, making a clicking sound with his tongue as his face tightened into a grimace.

Ysadette's mind told her the elf cradling her was none other than her doddering Mentor, but her eyes insisted it wasn't. He was always smiling and friendly, but this stranger's face was twisted into a frown with such an intensity that Ysa couldn't imagine him making another expression.

She reached out for his hand, catching it as he tried to push the matted hair out her face. Ysadette turned it over and traced her thumb over the crevasses and hills of his knuckles.

Her arm twitched and forced her fingers to curl around his hand. It was the same one that she had led away from the docks. The genial owner called Ulpo had taken his leave, though. In his place was a grim figure, no greater in size but carrying such a presence that he appeared to be twice that. Ysa hesitated, then dared to put a hand over the jutting bone of his cheek. "Mentor?" she said. "Who are you, really?"

As if she hadn't spoken, Ulpo pushed her hand away and went back to caring for her, stopping at her arm and rubbing his thumb along a scrape. The corners of his mouth turned into a deeper frown than they already were and he brushed over it again, a shimmer of gold knitting the wound with such gentleness that she scarcely felt his touch.

"I asked a question," Ysa said.

His lips parted like he was about to answer, but his glower locked them again. Ulpo shook his head and lifted her up from the floor. He looked around the room, bewilderment on his face for a moment before he focused on the stairs. He carried her up into her room, not showing any signs of straining despite his spindly frame, and set her down on the bed. Ulpo paused and made an expression between content and indifferent before he turned his back to her without a single word.

Ysadette propped herself up on her elbows. "Are you not going to answer me?"

Ulpo put his hand on the door-frame and bowed his head. His fingernails scraped against the cheap wood, peeling back specks of paint. He drew in a long breath, shuddered, then exhaled long after she was sure he'd emptied his lungs. "A fool," he muttered and rushed down the steps into the next room.

Cursing her infuriating curiosity yet again, Ysa forced herself to follow him.

Ulpo was sitting at the small dining table. His robes were split open at the chest, his hands cupping the gleaming red inside. That bitter-sour taste crept to the back of Ysa's tongue again. She could smell it as well. There was a smoky scent in the air like a pile of charred wood.

Ysa pulled out the chair next to him and sat down.

Ulpo took his hands away from the glow and glanced at her. "Please, don't be afraid," he said, "It won't happen again. It's my fault. I wasn't careful enough."

Without him blocking her view, Ysa was able to see what caused the light. Buried inside of Ulpo's chest was a ruby stone more than twice the size of her own fist.

Beating. Pulsating. A chill ran up her spine.

There wouldn't have been room for a heart to fit because of it. So where was it? A red spark jumped off him and stung Ysadette's finger as she laid her hand on his back. "You aren't in any pain, are you?"

Ulpo lifted his head and looked towards the wall as if it were a more desirable option than seeing her. He tugged at his robes to cover the stone. "Thank you for your concern, but no."

Ysa looked to the light as it neared a point of flickering out. "What is this? Did it cause that…" she paused, lacking the proper word.

He cupped his hands over the stone again. Tiny, rose lines crawled over his skin and went back into his chest. "I wouldn't know where to begin," he said. "I wouldn't know how to explain it in a way you'd understand."

Ysa scooted her chair close. "Try, then. I don't mean to be rude," Ysa paused and shook her head. "No, actually, I do mean to be rude. You owe me an explanation and I want it this instant."

He made a sound that was akin to a chuckle but his scowl was unmoved. "Have it your way, then," he said. "It's something magical."

"Where did it come from?"

Ulpo let out a puff of air and raised his eyebrows. "That's a difficult question to answer. Thoroughly, anyway."

Ysa leaned so that she could see his eye snap to her and away again. "Do you not know or do you simply refuse to tell me?"

Ulpo twisted away from her. "Both."

"How can it be both?" Ysa said. "Never mind. It doesn't matter. Andard and I were going to enjoy ourselves until you interrupted us, so I don't think I need to tell you how little interest I have in secrets right now, Mentor."

Ulpo leaned back in his chair and looked towards the ceiling. "It's mine," he said. "I pieced it together across several decades based on the potency of its energies. It's somewhat like an enchanted piece of jewelry to enhance my magicka stores if I had to make an unserviceable comparison."

"Really?" Ysa said. "I've encountered enchantments before, but placing one on your own body? You can do that?"

Ulpo nodded. "In a manner that you'd never imagine possible," he said. "An associate of mine pioneered the process many years ago, but I'd argue that I've perfected it since then. More than that, actually. Even now, after decades of extensive testing, I still feel as if I'm centuries away from finding the upper limitations of its power. For all I know, it may not have any."

"Why, then?" Ysa asked. "Why would you make something like this? Was it for the sake of power?"

Ulpo shook his head, a shade of grimness making him loom. "In a way, yes," he said. "I needed to make a way to do the impossible. To understand what I couldn't understand, to reach beyond the flow of Aetherius, into deeper magic."

Ysadette ran her fingers across her chin. "What is there that's deeper?"

Ulpo pressed his hands together and squeezed his eyes shut. "Tell me, have you ever wondered what makes the world move? What makes the seasons change? What causes the ocean to push and pull or the clouds to race from one end of the sky to the other?"

Ysa nodded. "Natural forces. In your last two examples, Masser and Secunda, and the direction of the winds, respectively."

"True," Ulpo said, "But there's so much more to it than that. There is…" he put a finger on his lips and paused. "There's something I spent most of my life completely ignorant of. A kind of magic that upended my whole life's work when I began to study it."

"And this stone of yours," she pointed at his chest, "Allows you to control that magic?"

Ulpo mustered a look of surprise. "No, unfortunately. However, if I were paired with the proper catalyst, the difference between the two would be negligible."

"Then we can talk to other local mages," Ysa said. "Perhaps one of them can help you find the catalyst you need. We can work this out together."

Ulpo began to laugh but shuddered, rendering his attempt a strange snort. "I appreciate your enthusiasm, but they'd have nothing of the sort," he said. "Even if by chance they did, to be in so close to uncontrolled power would be a nightmarish scenario you'd do well to not think about. You saw what happened a moment ago. If I lost control of myself for even a fraction of a second, the ramifications are nothing short of…"

Ulpo's eyes widened. He lurched forward as if someone tried to slam his face onto the table. His mouth moved as if he were speaking but Ysadette couldn't hear anything besides the smacking of his lips. His face drained of all color and he drew in a sharp breath like someone taking their last.

Then she realized what was happening.

"Mentor!" she shouted. "Why is it that you aren't mad anymore? What's causing you to act this way?"

An empty-headed smile spread across Ulpo's face and his eyes grew distant. "D'oh! Hello there, girl! How are you? Is it time for your lessons already?" said her true Mentor upon his return, swinging his legs underneath the table like an excited child.

"D'oh, phooey!" Ulpo leaped to his feet and shuffled about the room, pushing around whatever he came to first in a sudden burst of explorative energy. "I've misplaced my fork!"

He cackled and stuck his nose to the bookshelf to stare it down with a frightful seriousness. Ulpo wriggled his hands into the corners until he tugged on a book and threw it to the floor among the others. Hidden behind it was his dear fork which he squeezed against his face. Evidently pleased, he climbed into his bed, curled into a tight ball, and resumed his emphatic, ritualistic snoring.

Ysa remained at the table, motionless.

Even in his clearest of moments, Ulpo had never been like that. Nothing was the same about him. Not even the tone in his voice. She shivered as the droning, apathetic sound replayed itself in her head more than she was able to stomach. Cursed with a moment of abhorrent bravery, she forced herself to look at him.

An innocent smile, the same he always made a point to wear, had won out over the previous frown. Out of all the questions she had about her Mentor, one of his true-self hadn't crossed her mind. Had she been wrong? Did she ever really know the elf named Ulpo?

A figure entered the front door. They pulled her from the chair and into a tight embrace. Ysadette wrapped her arms around them without first taking note of who they were. All she knew was they were soaked head to toe and smelled like salt water.

"Thank the gods, Detta," Andard's voice said. "You aren't hurt, are you?"

Ysa held him at arm's length and took his face in her hands so she could focus properly on it. At least he looked as he always did. She wouldn't take that for granted again. "No. I'm fine."

Andard glanced past her. "And your teacher?"

Ysadette bit her tongue. What was she going to tell him? That Ulpo could have accidentally erased her from existence with little more than a flick of his wrist? That he was right all along and the elf wasn't as he seemed? She was on the edge of spiraling. Ysa pushed him away to gather herself. "We're both unharmed," she said with a heavy sigh. "While I was on the way here, though, I saw some people who may not have been so lucky. The Chapel - they may need healers. I…I should go and help them."

Andard caught her by the hand before she could leave him behind. He gazed into her eyes, meeting the rattled look she gave him with one that begged her to stay. Without faltering, he pulled her back into his arms once more. "Damn my luck," he said. "Go on, then. I know I can't stop you so I won't even try. But, if it isn't too much trouble, would you do me a favor?"

"What is it?" Ysa asked.

Andard rubbed his hands over her back. "Don't overwork yourself."

He pulled away from her, tucked her hair behind her ear and added an unconvincing smile that Ysa could see right through. "While you're off helping the priestesses, I'll go over to my shop and see what I can salvage," Andard said. "After you feel like you've done enough, stop by. I'll be waiting for you. We'll…uh…probably have to sit on the boardwalk, though."

He always knew what to say, even when she didn't, even when it wasn't fair. She wanted him to be angry with her. It would've made sense, but it was as if the thought never crossed his mind. Him and that charming smile of his dropped a weight on her with their oafish conviction – bent on making the guilt sting more than ever.

With hardly a thought as to what to do next, her hands found his jaw and she pushed her lips against his cheek. Ysadette stood on the tips of her toes and persisted until she tasted the salty brine lingering on his skin and dashed into the streets spouting flustered apologies.

 _Go back, you idiot! Go back!_

Ysa couldn't stop herself from running faster.

 _Go back!_

Andard had his own, deeply secretive magic, it seemed. It was the kind that turned her brain to mush.

 _Go back!_

.~~~.

A metal hand settled on her shoulder and gently shook her. "Ysa," whispered a voice. "It's done. You can stop now."

She opened her eyes to Isro squatting in front of her. With his perpetually furrowed brow, softening just a bit when she focused on him, he stepped back from her. Ysa carefully stood up as she felt her blood rushing back towards her head and making her dizzy. Nausea washed over her and her skin turned clammy. Necromancy was always capable of doing that. "Did you get what you needed?" she asked.

Isro nodded.

"I remember it now," Glodon said. He stood up from the boulder he was perched on and leaped down to the ground. "There's a field to the North of here that Celdan and I would go hunting in before the sun would come up. Teeming with deer, it is! We'll go there and then follow the stone path until we find two boulders that look like an ass. That was where we met the witch."

"Delightful," Ysa said. "Shall we be on our way?" She put her hand against her forehead as she tried to estimate how much magicka she had left. _Not enough should things turn sour. I'll need to be careful going forward._

Glodon ran his hand over his head. "We should, yes, but before we do that, I er…"

Ysa stopped and raised an eyebrow at him.

"Thaum left last night to find help and he hasn't come back yet," Glodon said. "He was supposed to be back by midday, but…"

Ysa groaned. "We don't have time to dawdle," she said. "Where did he go? Perhaps we can find him along the way."

"See, there's a problem," Glodon said with a wince. "Since we're all known criminals and have bounties on our heads, we can't exactly go into town without the guards hauling us off to the dungeon."

"Damn right," Isro said, crossing his arms and looking deadly serious at Glodon.

"So, since we couldn't visit the Chapel or go to the apothecary, he, uh…" Glodon pursed his lips. "We didn't see any other options. Thaum went to join that group in Fort Rayles. The, uh, big one."

"Why would he go there?" Isro growled. "Gave up on the lot of you? Wanted to save himself?"

"He'd never abandon us!" Glodon snapped. "And I may be diseased, but say one more thing about him and I'll show you what…"

"Enough!" Ysa said. "Why did Thaum try to join them?"

Glodon's fizzling glare remained locked on Isro. "He hoped to strike a deal with them with them," he said. "He figured he could convince them to help us find the witch and kill her if we merged our small group with theirs."

"But if you made contact with them, that'd mean…" Ysa began.

Glodon nodded and whistled through his tooth. "They'd get cursed as well," he said. "They'd have no choice but to help us if they wanted to live. We planned on running a few jobs to bring in enough coin to make ourselves look useful after we killed the witch. And once we got a chance," Glodon licked his lips. "We'd make off with all of that loot."

"Really?" Ysa asked. "You'd willingly deliver a plague to them and use it to hold their lives ransom? That's awful."

Glodon shook his head. "I know, but what choice did we have?"

Ysa put her hand on her forehead and sighed. Working alongside someone who'd stolen from her already required more rationalization than she was comfortable with. Saving another who'd sicken others for his own gain? That was too much to bear. "I'm sorry, but I am not interested in finding your missing friend," she said. "We already have more pressing matters to attend to. Thaum got himself into this mess, so he will…"

"I'll go," Isro said. "You said it yourself, Ysa. We don't have time to talk at length about this. So I'll go."

"Wait a moment," Ysa said. She grabbed his arm and tugged at it. "You'll be walking into a bandit camp alone. I won't be able to come to your aid. You are aware of that, aren't you?"

"We were trained to scout for a reason," Isro said, scratching his chin. "I'm not going to fight off the entire gang. I'm just going to see if Thaum truly is there."

"Why are insistent on this?" she asked. "Only a few hours ago you were prepared to put them all on the block. Now you want to track one down and help him? What aren't you telling me?"

Isro's brow furrowed deeply and he leaned down to speak in her ear. "Something about this doesn't bode well," he muttered. "Remember what I told you when you first arrived in Chorrol?"

"That the gang in Fort Rayles has become an issue recently," she said, "What of it?"

"What I didn't say at the time was that Captain Pinard has been checking the wall's integrity," Isro said. "Checks and repairs are mandatory every month, but it's only been two weeks since the last time. Now, he hasn't repaired anything yet, but he's got to have a reason for checking off-schedule."

"Perhaps he's only being cautious?" Ysa said.

Isro frowned. "Could be," he said. "Or maybe he's anticipating something. Captain Pinard has a long history in Chorrol. His intuition has saved the city more than once and I've had an awful feeling in my gut about the Rayles gang that won't go away."

Ysa glanced to the side and tilted her head at Glodon.

"Thinking the same thing, huh?" Isro whispered. "Chances are he's keeping something from us. Why did Thaum go from wanting to sell your necklace for potion money to joining another gang in one day? Why not try sneaking into town? Why the sudden change of plans before the first option was exhausted? And even if killing the witch lifted the curse, what's to stop the Rayles group from killing them as well? Why would they allow them to join after threatening them?"

Ysa looked over her shoulder. "Maybe they didn't think this through," she whispered. "Bandits aren't known for their keen intellect."

"Maybe," Isro said, "But wouldn't it make sense if this merge was planned? Before the curse became an issue?"

Ysadette tucked her hand underneath her chin. "You have a point," she said. "I don't know if there's anything to it, but it does sound a bit suspicious. No matter what it is, please be careful."

Isro's frown broke into a minimal smile. "Same to you," he said. "I know I don't have to tell you this, but keep a spell ready in case you need it. There are too many unanswered questions and I don't like it."

After Glodon had given him a brief description of Thaum, Isro nodded sternly at Ysa and marched off into the woods.

Glodon smacked his palms together as he approached from behind. "So what do you say? Should we get going?"

Maybe Glodon was cleverer than she was giving him credit for. Until she had proof, though, she'd have to carry on as if her suspicions didn't exist. "Yes," she said, "Quickly now." Ysa tugged at her cloak until it was tight around her shoulders as Glodon took the lead, occasionally peeking back at her.

 _Let's hope you're simply as paranoid as I am, Isro_. _For our sakes._


	12. Blood for Blood

12

.~~~.

The morning sun peeked over the hills and bathed Skingrad's vineyards with warm light – chasing the nighttime coolness away. Mytho breathed in the crisp air as he strutted through the fields, making his way beyond the guardsmen's patrolling grounds. Mytho figured they'd avoid interrupting his business but figuring and knowing for sure were two different things. With his recent streak of bad luck ever present in his mind, he preferred the safer of the two options. Besides, it'd be a damn shame to stain the fields with blood on such a beautiful morning.

"Where exactly are we going, sir?" Toren asked, stumbling along behind him, flicking his head around like he half-expected someone to jump at him from the weeds. "We've passed plenty of fine spots already. If we'd stopped at one of those, we wouldn't have to stomp through the grass out here."

Mytho wagged his finger. "Aye, but there's the problem," he said. "You shouldn't count on having an advantage based on terrain alone."

"I don't follow," Toren said with a huff.

Mytho stopped and looked over the area. It was covered in thick clumps of grass that stood as tall as his knees. "Think of it this way, then," he said, "Suppose you're being dogged by three bandits, a band of warrior-poets, a pack of wolves, and one _very_ displeased mudcrab. You're fast approaching a dead-end and the ground is swampy. Do you turn around and ask them if they'd prefer to do battle elsewhere or do you make the best of the situation?"

Toren shook his head and grumbled a curse under his breath. "Fine," he said, "You've made your point. But we aren't on swampy ground, now are we?"

Mytho nodded. "We aren't, but this grass ought to do nicely for teaching you about footwork. Easy to get tangled up in." Mytho stopped and spun around on his heel. He unbuckled the rapier he'd brought along and tossed it to Toren. "Now, take this and show me your stance."

Toren grabbed the blade and removed it from its carrier – turning it over and tracing his finger along the surface, his eyes glossing over.

Mytho tapped him on the forehead. "Don't get any ideas," he said. "You won't get far selling it. Unless you're interested in seeing the dungeon's bars from the inside."

With a start, Toren returned his attention to Mytho. "Stolen?"

"Borrowed," Mytho said. "For now, that is. Whether it stays that way or not depends on how well you perform."

Toren looked over the rapier once more before lowering to his waist and gripping it with both hands.

"Unless you intend on ramming that up someone's rear, you'd best adjust that stance of yours," he said. "That's not a longsword. It's meant for thrusting, not so much slashing. Hold it further out – one hand this time." Mytho paced around him, arms crossed and shaking his head. "Straighten up that posture a bit as well. You're too low. And lead with your shoulder. You'll make yourself too wide if you're facing frontwards."

Toren's face hardened. "This doesn't feel quite right," he said. "Doesn't this leave me with less power behind my attacks?"

Mytho shrugged. "It would if this were about power," he said. "Where your standard guardsman would be swinging a broadsword, squealing like a stuck pig all the while and sweating twice as much, you won't be doing any of that."

Toren looked on with a puzzled expression.

"Here, I ought to show you before I start spouting hypotheticals at you," Mytho said as he took the rapier. He set his feet apart and placed one hand behind his back. "They may have the advantage of power, but you have the advantage of mobility. They're loaded down with their heavy armors and thick blades. You; light and agile."

"But if they have the armor, won't that make it hard to strike?" Toren asked.

Mytho nodded. "Good question," he said. "Now would be a good time to ask yourself how you intend on dealing with it."

Toren scratched his head and shrugged.

Mytho pointed the rapier at Toren's nose. "Precision," he said. "That's your answer. You've seen those openings on the faces of their helmets and on the backsides of the knees, haven't you?"

"Er, not on the knees I haven't," Toren said.

"Well, even if you haven't, it's important that you know those places are prime targets for thrusting," Mytho said. "You won't get quite as far trying to shove this through steel plate, but through skin and muscle, you'll find better results. However, you must find an opening before you try for these areas. This is where your footwork will decide your fate." Mytho handed the rapier back to Toren.

"But do keep in mind that you'll get nowhere against an opponent that's aware of your game," Mytho said. "Thrusting wildly will only waste your time and leave you open to a counterattack. Instead, you'll need to act defensively and then shift to the offensive when they've tired themselves out."

"How do I keep up the fight for that long?" Toren asked, trying to mimic Mytho's stance from moments prior. "If they can split me in two with one swing, how would I keep that from happening?"

Mytho jabbed a finger at Toren's feet.

"Ah," he said.

"Besides that, you'll need to do what you can to keep them on the move," Mytho said. "All that plate gets heavy after a while. The more they need to guard themselves, the quicker they'll be exhausted. That's why you only see them patrolling the streets in that armor and riding on horseback when outside the gates. The natural unevenness of the terrain would sap their stamina."

Mytho squinted at a figure walking along the dirt path. "Make no mistake, though. Anyone wearing that kind of protection isn't going to be a slightly more intelligent training dummy. The preparation they endure to become a guard doesn't allow for any sort of laziness. Even if you do everything correctly, there is a very real possibility they will still outlast you."

Toren gulped hard. "So how about you teach me how to attack, then?" he asked. "I could put an end to them before they have a chance, couldn't I?"

Mytho wagged his finger. "Remember what I said? Defense first, then offense. That isn't just for teaching, it's a way to do battle. Muck up that order and you'll end up flat on your arse."

Toren stepped lightly around behind him. "I'd wager I've got that under control," he said. "Back on my pa's farm, I fought off a wolf that tried to steal our chickens. Only nipped me once or twice."

Mytho chuckled. "Care to test that experience, then?"

With a nod and a smirk, Toren agreed.

Mytho uncrossed his arms and swirled around, catching Toren in the ribs with his heel.

Toren yelped and collapsed to the ground with all the grace of a dead tree. Grimacing, he rubbed his side and stood back up in a hurry. "You could've just pushed me!" he said.

"Which one will you remember for the next few days, though?" Mytho asked. "Will it be the few seconds you spent in the weeds or the bruise?"

Toren sighed and pressed his hand against his side. "Point taken," he said. "But if you're done kicking me about, I really would like to get to the part about attacking. Fancy footwork doesn't mean much if I can't retaliate."

"Eager one, aren't you?" Mytho asked. He spaced his feet apart and lowered himself. "Fine, fine. Come on, then. Give it your best."

Bewilderment written on his face, Toren lowered his blade to his waist.

"Why do you look so worried?" Mytho said. "Chances are you won't even catch me by the coattails. I just want to see how you carry yourself in motion so I know where to start."

Toren held the blade to his chest and rushed at Mytho, unleashing a thundering cry to rip the serene morning to shreds.

He had initiative, at least. Even if he was a loud-mouth.

As the morning dragged on, Mytho continued to practice with Toren. It'd been quite a while since he'd decided to teach someone how to use a blade properly. Still, it was a different experience than he'd come to expect. Toren may have been a quick study when it came to combat arts – a fact that took Mytho by welcome surprise – but he didn't possess the same instinct Aressia had. Aside from the fact that he actually worried he'd land a telling blow, he was far less experienced.

Mytho didn't utter a word about that, though. There was no sense in dashing his hopes so soon, not when Mytho was still adequately sure that Toren would make a fine duelist one day. If he devoted time to honing his skills, that is.

However, as morning became midday, he could tell Toren was growing sloppier with each attempt at catching him.

It'd been more than a few hours that Toren was drenched in sweat and red in the face, limply thrusting the rapier at him just as Mytho wanted. Endurance wasn't built from lounging, after all.

When another floppy thrust came at him, Mytho grabbed Toren by the wrist and yanked the rapier from his hand.

Toren landed flat on his back despite Mytho not intending on that happening. "You could've…" he heaved, "You didn't need to push me down!"

Mytho swished the rapier around in wide circles. "Get back up and stop whining," he said, "All I wanted to do was disarm you."

Toren groaned and sat up, his brow furrowed. "If you can wait a moment before knocking me around again, I've got something on my mind."

"Thoughts don't excuse your poor aim, lad. Try again."

Toren glared at him. "So, do I take that as you saying it'd be a bother if I asked a question?"

Mytho nodded but continued to swish the blade around in the air.

Toren sighed and cast his eyes down. "Whenever the Guild comes around for information, they hand me a small coin purse and nothing more," he said. "You, on the other hand, gave me a meal and a bed. That and more coin for information I haven't even given you yet. Now you've got me outside the city for swordsmanship lessons."

"What's your question, lad?" Mytho said, "The birds are starting to circle."

Toren squinted hard. "What's your aim in all this?" he asked. "I do know how these things work, actually. You do all these things for me, then ask something that's worth more than all those combined. I want to know what it is so I can get a head start. Otherwise, I expect I'll be in your debt forever."

Mytho shrugged and scratched his neck. The day before, he'd Toren figured for a fool, but he was sharper than he let on. It was no surprise Halora wanted to drag him into the Guild.

No, that'd be a waste. He could find a better use for his life than being another nameless, faceless thief destined for mediocrity. "Would you laugh if I said I saw a bit of myself in you?" Mytho asked.

"No, but I'd want to know why you do," Toren said.

"It's a bit more complicated, but we've both got similar outlooks, I figure," Mytho said. "We value our freedom more than life itself. Right or wrong, a storybook ending or tragedy, we both know that living life shackled by another isn't a life at all. When your father wouldn't let you live the way you wanted, you chose to leave. You knew that having a choice was more important than what he thought."

"It wasn't that conscious of an action, sir," Toren said. "I just didn't want to die a farmer when there's a whole world out there to see."

Mytho nodded. "And that is the exact reason I left home when I was barely able to grow hair on my chin."

Toren looked at him quizzically. "You were a farmer? I'd have never guessed you'd be the sort."

"Well, not exactly," Mytho said, "But the point still stands. Routine makes for a dull life. When you're in a rut, you'll find yourself living one while dreaming of another. I figure that the life you think of the most is the one you truly want. So, why not chase it until you find it? If you die trying, then at least you didn't live a long time in the misery of unrealized potential."

Toren leaned back until he was flat in the grass, staring up at the sky. "I don't think it's anything so complicated for me," he said. "I was only bored. I didn't think beyond that."

"That's another great thing about choosing your own path," Mytho said, "You can choose to not think about anything at all if it suits you."

Toren breathed a shallow laugh. "No one to judge me for being daft, then?"

"Nobody that you don't have the means to leave behind," he said.

It wasn't much of a smile that Toren plastered on his own face, but it did its best to look like one. "You know what, though?" he said after lying in silence for a bit. "Strange as it is, I still miss my pa sometimes. I wonder if I should write him a letter or go home to see how he's doing. Or if he'd even take me back if I asked. What do you think?"

"That's a question I can't answer, lad," Mytho said. "But if he's worth troubling yourself with, he'd understand why you've chosen to make your own way."

Toren screwed up his face. "So how about one that you can?"

Mytho raised an eyebrow at him.

"At some point, you're bound to meet people you care about," Toren said. "But if you can't be near them because of what you've chosen, I want to know how you're supposed to carry on without being burdened."

"You, er…" Mytho trailed off.

How odd. He found his lips had been locked up tight.

" _I only do that to the people that need it,"_ Halora's words from the day before echoed, not lacking in precision nor venom. _"Like self-absorbed duelists with a paralyzing fear of commitment."_

Mytho leaned on his heels. No, it was always more than that. Much, much more. She was only talking about things she didn't know.

After a few moments of quashing his own doubts, Mytho realized Toren was still staring at him, waiting for an answer.

"Well?" he said.

"Well, what?" Mytho asked.

"How do you do it?"

Mytho turned his back and set his hands on his swords. "First, you stop trying to distract me," he said. "Second, you stop sitting on your arse. You've got a long way to go if you ever want to graze even a buckle, lad."

"Yes, sir," Toren said as he stood to his feet.

Mytho scratched his chin with one hand and motioned for him to follow with the other. _A good question, boy. Damned good one._

.~~~.

Halora perched on the rooftop, eyes watching the shadows cast by the moonlight and setting sun on opposing ends of the city. The wind was howling grimly through the streets like it was eager to be elsewhere. However, she had nowhere else she'd rather be. Orange flickers from the patrolling guards and their torches circled in the world below, basking the darkest corners and alleyways of Skingrad in revealing light.

Her fingertips played on the edge of her shortsword but not once did she unsheathe it. She was alone on this night, that much she made sure of. Distractions weren't part of the plan and she couldn't afford for anyone to get in the way – guildmate or otherwise. At least, Halora hoped there wouldn't be any. The one variable beyond her control was hopefully going about his own business and not getting involved with hers. He'd only make a mess of things with his "kill first and ask questions second" attitude.

She hadn't seen him since their argument the day before, which was both a worrisome sign and a welcome surprise she didn't figure she'd be graced with so long as he was in town. But she wasn't naïve. While it may not have come to a head, Mytho was up to something, surely. In all likelihood, it would also become an issue she'd have to deal with later.

With a deep breath, she stopped herself from fretting over that. It wasn't worth the headache she'd give herself if she continued. In due time, she'd deal with it.

Halora waited on the same rooftop long after the last embers of the sun had burned out, leaving her in the black of night. The moons swirled above her in the blackness in a hurry to their apex. She wasn't afraid, but the pounding of her heart in her chest kept her on edge – alert to the smallest stirring in the night.

" _I'm afraid I have to disagree this time, Madam,"_ Luciros had said before she left the hideout earlier in the evening. _"While I do believe that something must be done and soon, I'd prefer it if we handled this in another manner. Ideally, indirectly. We haven't any idea what he's truly capable of, and Nocturnal only knows how long his patience will last should one of us meet him face to face."_

Halora frowned. Luciros may have had a point, but that was where she took issue. They may know that he's out there, that he was hungry for their blood, but beyond that they were blind. Someone needed to gather information from him, no matter how little or great it was, and that someone would be her. Halora couldn't bear the thought of sending another member of the Guild in her place. Not if it ended with another death of her people.

Perhaps she was desperate – out of her mind and out of control – but if it was to keep them safe then she'd be no other way.

She thumbed the buckle of the pouch around her waist, sloshing the potions around inside. Despite being half her age, Luciros was prudent in a way that she could only wish she'd been when she was young. He had brewed and given her two healing potions so potent the slightest whiff of them made her nose wrinkle. She insisted that she wouldn't be needing them, but, stubborn as a mule, he'd shoved them into her hands regardless.

She had to smile, albeit begrudgingly, at that. _That boy,_ she thought, _He'll make himself a damned fine Doyen one day._

She took a deep breath. If tonight went as she hoped, though, that day wouldn't be tomorrow. Halora steadied her trembling hands. _Focus. Get whatever you can out of him, then make a run for it. You don't need to kill him and you don't need to die for him, either._

It was stark midnight when the winds picked up again, stronger than before. Not a guard in sight, either, almost as if they had left her there to conduct business uninterrupted.

At last, she heard footsteps behind her. She took a deep breath and turned around, oddly hoping that for once, it was only Mytho with his irksome smile.

It wasn't.

Halora gripped her blade tight as she watched him settle on the rooftop across the street – his body silhouetted against the crimson of Masser at its fullest. The cloak around his shoulders fluttered in the wind, wide and enveloping as he stood facing her head on, challenging her to make her move.

"I was beginning to wonder how long it'd take you to arrive," Halora said as she paced along the edge of the rooftop.

The Vigilante stood silent, eyes burning at her from underneath his hood. He turned and walked along the edge opposite of her, the blade at his hip peeking out from underneath his cloak.

"If I'm being honest, I almost wish my aim here tonight was to run a knife into your throat," she called out.

He stopped and faced her again. His hand floated on the hilt of his blade, head cocked to one side as if to question her.

Halora stopped as well. "However, it isn't," she said. "I'm here to speak with you."

His hand slowly moved back under his cloak.

Seeing that, she began to pace again. "I came to find out what it is you want from us," she said. "Why you have a vendetta against the Thieves Guild, and more importantly why you thought it was wise to slaughter one of my Shadowfoots and leave a note pinned on his corpse like he were a prop for your amusement."

Silence still.

Halora stopped and crossed her arms. "Most who'd dare challenge us would understand the error of their ways," she said, "Even the Dominion has decided that we're best left alone, and yet you seem proud of yourself. Which makes me wonder; are you simply a thrill seeker in over his head, or do you indeed have a goal in mind?"

She thought for a moment she heard him laugh, but his posture said he was only preparing himself to pounce.

"Perhaps it doesn't matter," Halora said. "If you know how to track us in the night, surely you must know how we operate as well, don't you?" she said. "At least, you know that we value business above crime, yes?"

The Vigilante leaped from one rooftop to the next, never taking his eyes off her.

"So, let's talk business," she said. "You want something for your troubles and we have the means to provide it. You don't need to deny that because it's true for each and every person in Tamriel. However, we must agree to terms if you wish to proceed."

As if he expected the winds to answer for him, he continued to stare her down. It wouldn't be the first time Halora was given that sort of treatment. It also wouldn't be the first time she'd broken someone's façade, either.

"Fine," Halora spat. "If you won't speak up, then I'll continue…"

A gust of wind blew hard against her. She raised her hand to block it.

The Vigilante was there when it stopped, looming over her – his darkened face just short of being visible and so close she could touch it. His cloak billowed around her like it was trying to pull her in.

"You're interested, then?" she asked, folding her arms. "Good. It's much easier to speak without you so far away. I don't have to strain my voice."

"You've nothing to offer me," he said, his tone low and guttural. "Nothing at all."

"On the contrary," Halora said, "The Thieves Guild is a powerful ally to have on your side. You are aware that others would kill to be in your position right now, aren't you?"

It wasn't her ears playing tricks on her that time. He did chuckle blatantly at her.

"Anything in this city can be made yours," Halora continued. "One of the estates in the Hightown District, a vineyard all your own, simple deals. We could even secure you a representative in the County Hall, should you favor the political over the material. But these come with a proportionate price, as with all things."

She didn't imagine him coming any closer without touching her, but somehow he managed it. "You're a fool," he said, words laced with fury, "Arrogant. Selfish. Acting as if you have any right to speak of such things with moral confidence."

"I've found that most would willingly do away with morality if it'd fill their purse," Halora said. "But insults are only good for angering simple folks and wildly useless speaking to all others. You seem to take me for the former."

"What else would you call a woman who's come to face me alone?" he said. "Who believes that her pathetic attempts at negotiating with me are alluring in any manner? Who stands before me, posturing as if she's any more than a speck of dung in my path?"

Halora uncrossed her arms. "Then you don't wish to strike a deal?"

His grueling silence spoke for him.

Halora nodded. "I see," she said, "I did have my hopes that it wouldn't come to this, but you've tied my hands. Consider this a formal warning from the Thieves Guild. Should you continue to interfere with our operations, we'll…"

His hand wrapped around her throat and squeezed tight. "You'll what?" he asked as he lifted her from the ground with ease.

Halora pulled at his fingers to keep them from snapping her neck in two. She reached for her shortsword and plunged it into his forearm until she was sure she hit bone. Defying her expectations, not a drop of blood sprayed from the wound.

The Vigilante merely sighed when he dropped her. He slid back across the ground like he was on ice yet his feet never moved.

Halora held up her blade and motioned at him. "Come on, then!" she said. "Don't be shy!"

The Vigilante drew his sword with a long, fluid motion. He held it pointed down at the rooftop and took a graceful step forward, leading with his left side.

Halora dashed at him and made a strike for his chest. His sword clanged against hers. In a single move, he swept up and cut the sleeve of her jacket. She slipped out of the way. His sword moved again and cut a few hairs from her head. He stepped back and threw his cloak around. With a blast of wind ushering him forward, he rammed into her.

Halora put up her guard just in time to keep him from running her through. Yet he continued to push on – forcing her to the edge of the building with ease.

"You're all fools," he growled, "You've acted without restraint. Targeting the good people of Skingrad as if they were but lambs. No more. Not while I still live."

He shoved her backward.

Halora's feet slipped off the edge of the building. He grabbed her by the hair and tossed her onto the rooftop again – her head throbbing already.

"You fashion yourselves as wolves prowling the night, and yet you've become bloated on your own greed," he said as he approached her, sword dragging the ground. "Unable to defend your pack when a true predator approaches. Because of this, you'll die. All of you," he said as he stood over her, blade pointed down at her head. The Vigilante thrust his sword down.

Halora slashed his leg and rolled out of the way, springing to her feet. There wasn't a drop of his blood still.

His leg swept around and knocked her to the ground again. With a wide swing, he cut across her cheek.

"But first, you'll fear me," he said as he stomped his foot on her ankle.

Halora gritted her teeth. It was a clean break.

"And you'll speak of me so that no more come after you're gone from this world," the Vigilante said.

She didn't have time to react when his blade seared across her chest.

Halora writhed on the ground. Shivers of pain stiffened her muscles. She fumbled around in the pouches around her waist. Her clothes were already growing wet and sticky with blood.

The Vigilante picked her up once again, carrying her to the edge of the building. He held her straight out like she was weightless. "Deliver this message to the Guild," he said. "As you have seen fit to threaten me tonight, I have decided I will no longer be patient in my dealings with you. Should I find any more of your members out after dark for any reason, they will be killed on sight." He held her close to his face until she could finally see his eyes – small, like glowing, orange pins. "Your hold on this city has come to an end."

Halora plunged her shortsword into his chest and ripped it back out.

He cocked his head to the side again. "You're beneath me," he said. "And I am beyond all of you."

She stabbed him again. Again. Again! Why wasn't he bleeding? What kind of person could shrug off so many fatal blows?

The Vigilante started to grow foggy in front of her, her eyelids growing heavy. As she pulled her blade back from one last stab at his heart, she caught something hanging from his neck and cut if free.

The Vigilante's attention followed it, dropping her as he let out a cry. Halora looked down to see a hay pile rushing up to catch her.

Above her, he was diving down after her as if the fall didn't frighten him.

As she landed, the world turned black. When Halora came to, she was already searching inside the pouch for one of the potions. She held the bottle out to find a crack running up the side of it – the precious contents draining from it fast. Her hands were shaking. The world growing dark. She hurriedly drank what was left and tried to still her pounding heart.

The hot pain from the gash on her chest ebbed a few moments later, but the rest of her body continued to throb. Halora imagined she'd have a few more broken bones besides her ankle, but none she couldn't deal with.

The Vigilante appeared again and ripped her from the hay pile. He threw her against the wall and wrapped his hand around her neck.

"Where did you hide it?" he shouted, drawing so close she could smell his metallic breath. "Where? Tell me or I'll kill you!"

"Who goes there?" called out a voice from around the street corner. The sound of steel footsteps rapidly approached them, orange light peeking around the corner.

The Vigilante looked at Halora, then back to the direction of the sound and light. With a growl, he threw her down and slid into the darkness – disappearing as if it welcomed his presence.

A guard rounded the corner, running at full speed with his sword held out. He held up his torch as he approached her. Halora had never before imagined herself being relieved to see one of them, but for once it the opportunity had been in her favor.

"By the Eight!" the guard said, "What happened here?"

Halora tried to sit up. Flaring pain from several broken bones and open wounds made her regret the attempt. "I was attacked," she said. "A man. H-he tried to rob me."

The guard stood up and looked around. "Which way did he go?"

"I don't know," she breathed. "Please, I dropped my belongings in the struggle. Help me look for them."

"Ma'am, please," the guard said as he held her up, "You need to be taken to the Chapel right away so the priestesses can have a look at you. We can find whatever it is you've lost some other time. I'll send out a few of my men to search the area."

Halora shook her head and used the wall to struggle to her feet. "No, I have to find it immediately. It's very important," she said as she limped away from him.

"Ma'am!"

Halora ignored his shouting. Whatever it was that sent the Vigilante into a rage was surely still around. She couldn't let all that she'd worked so hard for go to waste. She just had to stop herself from passing out in the street until she found it. The towering estates of Skingrad lurched over her, blurring and darkening into the night as she held the wall for support. The shadows of the night grew long, swallowing up the street lanterns. For a moment, she was afraid – afraid that she'd made a magnificently stupid mistake.

Then, in the dark, she saw it. In the middle of the street, gleaming from the moonlight, was the object she cut from the Vigilante; a silver ring.

She dropped to her knees and curled her blood-soaked fingers around it, holding it to her chest. Not so stupid after all. For all his caution and secrecy, he'd finally, _finally_ made a damning mistake. Halora drew in a ragged breath and fell onto her side.

Two more guards came rushing towards her to join the first.

"Quick! Run ahead and let the priestesses know we're coming!" the first one said. "There isn't any time to waste!"

Halora shivered as the cold wind blowing in the streets chilled her to the bone. She barely felt it when the guard gathered her into his arms and began to run.

"Please, ma'am!" he said, the words sounding distant to her ears. "Just a bit longer! We're almost there!"

Despite the situation, Halora wanted to grin like a fool. She almost wanted to laugh, in fact. She had him. It would all be worth it. She could make him pay for all the humiliation the Guild had suffered. For killing Dahlin-Dar.

No more running and hiding like rats.


	13. Starved Hounds

13

.~~~.

Isro had to laugh at himself. It was the only thing he could do to stave off the overwhelming urge to call himself an idiot. He'd spent the entire trip to Fort Rayles fending off pointed questions he'd made up for himself, hating that most of his nagging doubts weren't unfounded. Yet in spite of that, he'd managed to walk himself so close to the Fort he could see the vine-covered battlements from the tree line. He stopped at the edge, just before he'd lose coverage from the forest and stashed his armor plating behind a bush. With his satchel over his shoulder, he scaled the tree with the thickest leaves he could find.

Isro wedged himself into the crook of the tree and fished his telescope out of his satchel, sneering at his own impetuousness.

How was he going to explain the situation to Captain Pinard, anyway? He'd already had enough trouble convincing him that this excursion was absolutely crucial to Chorrol's safety. Coming back with a known criminal in tow and not in chains?

That was not a conversation he looked forward to.

What he'd promised that bandit he would do was considered in some circles to be blatant, unrepentant treason to the Countess herself – punishable by either beheading or a life sentence in prison. Isro, in fact, considered himself to be somewhere in those circles.

Oh, but it would only get worse because that was where he'd have to acknowledge the next, arguably worse conversation he was ill-fated to have. If his hunch was correct, he was not only going to bear the news that a large-scale bandit raid was threatening Chorrol, he was going to have to reveal something much, _much,_ worse.

Isro wiped the sweat from his brow. Goosebumps rippled across his skin.

 _Daedra._

The word sounded unnatural even in his thoughts as if aversion to them was instinctual. Aversion, but not fear. Not when he'd never dealt with one before. What he had dealt with more than once, though, were those who followed their activity like starved hounds. Every month or so, word of an isolated case of "Daedric Activity" would make its rounds across what seemed to be all of Cyrodiil – leaving bodies as evidence in its wake.

Isro knew it would only be a matter of time before there came a knock at every door in Chorrol.

Isro gripped his telescope tightly.

 _And the first person they'll investigate is you,_ he thought. _Sis will be next. They'll keep going until they find something. They always do._

Isro sighed, pushing his worries back inside as held the telescope to his eye and squinted at the gaps between the battlements. It wouldn't be long before the sun would set. He stuck his free hand into his satchel again until his knuckles tapped the finger-sized vial inside. It was still there. Good.

Once he planned his route, Isro made himself comfortable in the tree and waited for darkness to fall.

When the stars were bright and the torchlight from the watchmen shining, Isro climbed down from the tree. He dropped his satchel and other free-hanging items next to his armor, keeping only the vial held between his fingers and his sword. He watched the orange glow of the lights as he moved out from the tree line and towards the wall. Isro flattened himself against it to buy himself a few moments to breathe.

Isro removed the cork from the vial and downed the whole potion in one gulp. He suppressed the urge to vomit it back up as it coated his throat in a rotten film. He didn't know much about alchemy, but Suleh made it a point to explain that anything potent always had a taste to match.

Isro held his hand up, blocking the tree from his view and stared at his palm until his skin tingled. It was slow at first – only a glossy sheen appearing in his palm – but soon the shadows of the trees began to reveal themselves. Then the trees themselves. Isro glanced at his feet and saw nothing but flattened grass below.

"Damned thing actually works," he muttered to himself, placing his hand over his forearm even though he could hardly see either of them anymore.

He skulked around the outside of the Fort, avoiding the crunchy leaves covering the ground, working his way towards the tiny gap he'd noticed through his telescope earlier. It didn't seem to be guarded, which meant the bandits likely hadn't found it yet. That'd make for a perfect entrance and exit as long as it wasn't a dead end. When he reached it, Isro sucked in his stomach and pushed himself into the crack. It was a tight fit as he moved sideways through the opening. For a moment he was afraid he'd just gotten himself stuck until morning.

Isro gritted his teeth and pushed harder until he was dislodged. He stumbled out of the crevasse, surrounded by walls on every side. A dead end after all.

 _Or perhaps…_

He looked up. The stars and moons looked back. Isro leaped, his arms outstretched, and grabbed the ledge so he could pull himself upwards.

He bit his tongue to keep himself from groaning out loud when he was on his feet. Another dead end.

Isro settled for an exasperated sigh as he turned around and set his foot on the ledge, preparing to drop down again and try elsewhere when he noticed something. A vein of light peeked through a crack across from him where the floor once connected to the wall. Isro pushed himself against the wall and worked his way over to the tiny ledge, holding onto the jagged stone to keep himself from falling back into the pit.

Isro stuck his face to the wall and tried to angle himself well enough to see.

And see he did. There were two figures on the other side of the wall. One was sitting in a chair, a big Nord with limbs like tree trunks, his feet on the table. Another man paced back and forth in front of him. Isro put his ear to the crack and listened.

"You don't think…" the one pacing began.

"Enough!" the big Nord snapped, slamming his feet down on the ground. "You've been wringing your hands dry for the past hour! I wouldn't mind that so much if you'd just shut up for longer than a minute!"

"I'm only…"

"Worried, I know," the Nord said. "As if you haven't repeated that more times than you can probably count. But you know what can make you sick faster than anyone with a cough can? Worrying."

"But if you'd just listen…"

"And if all that worrying doesn't kill you," the Nord interrupted, "Then I will. Understand?"

"Look, all I'm saying is that we ought to kill the bastard and burn him before the rest of us catch it!" the worrywart said. "You saw how he changed after he got here. I've never seen something come up on someone like that."

The Nord sitting in the chair laughed. "Oh, so you really believe what he said, eh? That he's been cursed?"

Isro almost snorted in laughter. It had to be Thaum they were talking about. He didn't expect the elf would tell them so simply, not when he stood to gain nothing at the time. Maybe he was a fool. Still, Isro didn't have a clue if what Glodon told him about the merge was true or not so he kept his ear pressed firmly against the opening.

"I don't know is what I'm saying!" the worrywart said. "None of us do! And on the chance he was telling the truth, don't you think we ought to do something besides wait to see what happens?"

"Let me ask you something," the Nord said, "You and I have been working together for the past ten years. Have I ever led us wrong? Have any of our jobs gone wrong when I was in charge of them? Have we not expanded our numbers tenfold since I took over?"

"Well…"

"The answers you're looking for are no, no, and yes."

"But…"

"I'm not asking you and the boys for anything more than usual," the Nord said. "I'm not telling you to make the Emperor our jester or anything so lofty. All I'm asking is that you have a little faith in me."

"And if we start to get sick as well?" the other asked.

The chair the Nord was sitting in let out a creak of relief as he stood up. "We kill the pointy-eared bastard," he said without hesitation. "What else? And I'll send a few of the boys over to that cave the rest of 'em have been hiding in. Reunite 'em in –" The Nord paused and made a sound. Perhaps the inner workings of his mind sobbing for not being used in so long. "Wherever it is they go. Back to the trees or something, right?"

A disconcerting silence between the two followed.

"Any other questions?" the Nord said landing in his chair again with a thud.

"No, sir," the other man said and shuffled away.

Isro stepped back from the wall and stroked his chin. It hadn't amounted to much in the end, but he had proof that Thaum hadn't been eaten by wolves on the way to Fort Rayles. A wonderful bit of information, but nothing usable since he had no idea where they were actually holding the Bosmer.

Isro put his hand against the wall. Still translucent. For how long, though?

Isro gnawed on his tongue as it flopped around in his mouth. Damn it all. They'd said nothing of any raid. Nothing of any future plans besides Thaum's inevitable fate. Just useless worrying.

Maybe if he managed to take one of the watchmen, he could interrogate them in the woods and then –

No, that'd never work. He'd probably be caught by the others first.

Perhaps he could knock the wall in and surprise the boss on the other side.

Isro kicked the toe of his boot against the wall. Cracked, but otherwise solid. It was thicker than he was broad and wasn't going to yield to anything less than a fire blast. He ran his hands over his head, gritting his teeth. There weren't any other options. With a sigh, he dropped down to the ground again and made his way to the crevasse he'd wormed into before.

He froze when he heard rustling. Trickles of light peeked through the opening.

"I'm telling you," a voice said from the other side, "I heard something moving around down here when I passed by a few minutes ago. We should head in there and take a look."

"No, no, no," someone else said. "I'm not going in there first! No way in Oblivion will I be going in there! I'm not getting eaten by whatever it is on the other side."

"You don't have to go first! I'm just asking for a little bit of back up in case I need it. Can you do that?"

The other groaned loudly, barely covering the sound of steel being unsheathed. "Fine, if you'll stop whining. If I get bitten by something, I'm going to dunk you in the river."

Isro's stomach rolled over as they invaded the crevasse. Suleh had forced him to make a promise that he wouldn't do anything dangerous before they'd all left Chorrol. He knew he wasn't going to be able to meet that request anymore. He squeezed the handle of his blade and pushed himself into a corner, waiting until the man was fully inside.

Isro rammed his sword through the bandit's waist. He didn't even take the time to take note of his appearance. The bandit didn't make a sound on the way down. The other let out a shout and drew his sword.

 _I'm sorry, Sis._

.~~~.

Suleh held the corked bottle up to her eye, swishing it around until she figured the specks of ground-up Mandrake root were blended. When that didn't work quite as well as she'd hoped it would, she put her hand over the cork and began to shake it up and down, swishing her hips back and forth and humming the tune to "Springtime in Old Stros M'Kai."

"Once was a woman," Suleh sang as her hum grew too happy and turned into words, "As fair as an evening of springtime in old Stros M'kai."

She sashayed around her apothecary, humming and singing with the bottle in her hand. Over several years of brewing in silence, Suleh found that she wasn't fond of it. Admittedly far from a songbird as she may have been, anything was better than having her ears filled with sloshing for hours on end. As she neared the end of the tune, Suleh almost forgot the potion until it nearly escaped from her fingers and made a break for the nearest window.

It would've only been the second so far, but she couldn't go about wasting her ingredients. It was dreadfully moist outside. Most of all, she hated cleaning up a mess. Hated it almost as much as she hated that snooty bitch that owned the tavern down the way, in fact. That was why she'd put Ulpo to work once she became too invested in the brewing process to keep the apothecary from falling into disarray. He didn't seem to mind – his hands holding the stained rag tightly and feet stamping the ground in excitement whenever she looked his way – but she felt a bit sorry for him anyway. It was better than keeping him tucked away with her special potions, at least.

She absentmindedly giggled. Perhaps she should've shared one with him, come to think of it. Perhaps fixing his madness was that simple. Ysa was likely just too uptight to try it.

Suleh stopped dancing mid-swish. A famished thought sprinted across her mind, screeching a final time before it died. The table she'd left Ulpo sitting at had suddenly decided to seat a big, happy family of nothingness.

At least they were happy.

"Oh, damn," she said. Suleh bounded up the stairs, then back down again to set the potion on the table before she dropped it, then back to the stairs.

"Ulpo!" she called out, cupping her hands over her mouth. "Where did you go?"

"D'oh, my!" a tiny voice said from below, muffled by the distance between them, "Over here!"

Suleh stomped back down the stairs to find the voice. He must've been working some kind of magic, she guessed. Ysa did say he was a tricky little fellow.

"Come on out, Ulpo!" Suleh said as she looked behind the counter, finding only apothecary shelves of freshly brewed potions waiting for her with their reflective bodies looking so beautiful. "Ysa's going to kill me if I lose you!"

Ulpo popped up from underneath the table, his grin beaming at her. "Hello!"

Suleh jumped, a squeal jumping out of her mouth as well. "Don't scare me like that!" she snapped, rubbing her arms as a chill made her shiver. The only major job she'd been given, only seconds away from being mucked up. If she didn't count the potion brewing as a job, that is.

Ulpo continued to smile at her, the rest of his body hidden underneath the table. "D'oh, would you mind telling me where that silly girl has gone?"

"What silly girl?" Suleh asked.

"You know the one!" he said. "Oh, she and I are on an adventure to see the countryside! We ought to be going soon, but I can't seem to find her!"

Suleh sat cross-legged on the floor next to him. "Is that why you were down here?" she asked. "Were you looking for Ysa?"

Ulpo nodded hard enough that Suleh felt dizzy for him. "D'oh, she's always so serious!" he said. "So deadly serious, oh my. I thought I might find that other boy, too! I don't know where he's run off to but he might be looking for us!"

Suleh leaned back on her palms. "Find that other boy? What do you mean other – "

She drove her teeth into her bottom lip with a vengeance, wincing as she accidentally broke the skin. No need to spend time asking questions she already had answers to. "Say, Ulpo," she began, "How are you feeling?"

"It's almost time for my nap!" he said, "But I'll need my slippers first! That silly girl probably has them tucked away somewhere!"

Suleh scratched her neck. Now that she thought of it, he probably needed to sleep at some point. She didn't even know what time it was, actually. "Um, let me rephrase that. You aren't feeling ill, are you? You'd let me know if you were, wouldn't you?"

Ulpo shook his head. "I don't ever get sick!" he said with the utmost confidence. "I haven't gotten sick since I was a boy!"

Suleh pursed her lips and squinted her eyes at him. She had felt a worrisome tickling in the back of her throat when they'd gotten back to Chorrol earlier in the evening. It wasn't yet a cough, but she'd dealt with enough similar to it to know the difference between a trifle and a warning. If the curse-disease had enough time to start showing symptoms in her, it should have had plenty of time to do the same to him. In fact, she'd already sent two people in Chorrol home earlier with a potion for their lightheadedness just in case.

Why did he seem to shrug it off without any effort? Another spell, perhaps?

"Are you sure?" she pressed again.

Ulpo nodded once more.

That was likely the best answer she'd get from him, she guessed, but it didn't quash her skepticism. Suleh stood up, her head swimming, and took Ulpo's hand to help him up as well. "Well, I don't know where your slippers are," she said. "But I have a pretty comfy pair you can borrow for your nap. They're my favorite so don't ruin them!"

Ulpo's eyes drifted inward and focused on her, his cheeks being pushed up by his sunny smile.

The door to the apothecary swung open. One of Chorrol's guards-in-training, Luven, stood in the doorway, breathing hard and drenched in sweat.

"Something the matter?" Suleh asked as she ushered Ulpo away. She looked beyond him to see that the sun wasn't there. "It's rather late to be visiting me, but I suppose I could do worse as far as company is concerned."

"Isro!" Luven gasped. "He just got back! Has a bandit with him! They took them both to the garrison!"

Suleh leaned back and placed her elbows on the counter. "Good for him," she said. "He's always been a pretty dependable kid."

Luven shook his head. "No! He's hurt! I think he got in some sort of fight!"

Suleh dropped her head and sighed. That dummy. Always the overachiever. "Ulpo, keep an eye on things here for me," she said as she reached behind the counter and grabbed her satchel filled with alchemical supplies. "You don't have to open the door for anyone. Just make sure they don't try to break in and steal my things!"

Ulpo nodded vigorously and leaped onto the counter. A fearsome sneer twisted his face and he clapped his hands.

Good enough? Yes, that would be good enough. Hopefully, he would stay there and not leap out the window the moment she left. Suleh locked her arm with Luven's and flicked her hair over her shoulder. "Lead on, good sir! We've got places to be!"

Luven's eyes widened. "H-have you lost your damned," he said, gulping hard. "I mean, didn't you hear what I said? About your brother?"

"I heard you," Suleh said. "But you wouldn't let a woman like me walk all the way across town all by herself, would you? It's dark outside and there's a dangerous criminal now among us! What if he escaped? I could be in danger!" Suleh covered her mouth and gasped. "What kind of guard are you? No! What kind of _man_ are you?"

Luven groaned and mumbled a curse as they started across town. "Fine, j-just don't draw a lot of attention to us. I don't want anyone getting any ideas."

"I wouldn't dream of it," she said, pressing herself against him.

Suleh was a bit disappointed that there weren't many people strolling around Chorrol. Disappointed, but not surprised, anyway. It was almost as if they preferred sleeping in the earliest hours of the morning instead of being awake, the bores.

Despite the lack of curious eyes, Luven's face still reddened to the deepest shade of crimson reserved for only apples and cherries by the time they reached the garrison. However, Suleh let him go before they entered. She'd heard something before about being a threat, but she couldn't recall the reason for such a reaction. Regardless, she did her best to behave as Luven brought her down to the holding cells where she assumed Isro was waiting.

Captain Pinard glanced at Suleh as she entered the room and rolled his eyes, saying something she couldn't quite hear. "You took too damn long, Luven," he said.

"Ah! It's been a while Cap'n!" Suleh said. "How's the wife?"

Pinard rolled his eyes again and crossed his arms. "Alright, Isro. Your sister's here. It's time you start explaining yourself before I toss you in with that bandit over there."

The heavy bags underneath Isro's bloodshot eyes seemed to deepen as he raised his head. "Where do you want me to start, sir?"

"Well," Pinard stroked his beard, rustling the specks of black and gray that comprised it. "You could start by telling me why on Nirn you went to Fort Rayles without any backup when you were supposed to be helping that woman find her jewelry in the woods," he said. "Or you could explain where the both of you ran off to, considering Suleh and that Dark Elf arrived earlier without either of you."

Isro's face hardened. "Sis didn't tell you anything?"

"Of course not," Pinard said. "She's damned useless in that regard."

"Hey, when I left, they hadn't split up!" Suleh said. "I'm in the dark, too!"

Isro exhaled slowly. His hand didn't move from the bloody bandages wrapped around his stomach. "Well, we found one of the elves that robbed her inside Silverbank Mine," he said. "He and the rest of their group had made the place their hideout. They were ill, so I sent Suleh back to town so she could brew potions for them."

"For bandits?" Pinard asked pointedly. "You were going to give them potions? What for?"

Isro winced. "I'll get to that," he said. "But the bandit I brought with me is the other elf we were looking for."

"And the other one you found in Silverbank?" Pinard asked. "Where's he at now?"

"Still with my friend, I hope," Isro said, gritting his teeth.

Pinard's brow lowered frighteningly.

"I didn't intend on leaving her with him," Isro said, "But what I thought was going to be a simple arrest and property retrieval became more complicated once we arrived at the mine."

"Enough to merit a trip to Rayles?"

Isro nodded. "I learned at Silverbank that the group of Bosmer that's been active along the Black Road planned to merge with the Rayles gang." Isro sighed and hunched over. "The one I brought with me corroborated the story, unfortunately," he said.

Pinard nodded, stroking his beard. "A merger isn't unheard of," he said. "It's rather common for a smaller group to absorbed by a larger one. Increases their chances of survival while ending any territory wars at the same time."

Isro raised to his feet and walked to the cage. He hooked his fingers on the bars and narrowed his eyes at the elf inside. "This one, Thaum is his name, gave me quite a bit of information when I freed him from their dungeon."

Captain Pinard did a double-take. "You went into the Fort?" he said. "What'd you do? Cut a path?"

A sly grin spread across Isro's face. "I used an invisibility potion to get down there," he said. "Smashed a few things along the way to make them think the Fort was haunted. They were too distracted to worry about the dungeon so by the time I got there, it was as simple as breaking the lock and carrying him out."

"That was a dumb move, son," Captian Pinard said, exhaling a breath. "Brave, but dumb. What if they would've saw him floating through the air? What then?"

Isro shrugged. "You have a point, but they didn't," he said. "I escaped from a window and made off into the woods before anyone noticed we were gone. Promised him I'd have Sis make a potion for that disease of his as payment for not screaming his head off, though." Isro turned and looked at Suleh. "You don't mind, do you?"

Suleh waved her hand opened her satchel. "I thought that was why I was here in the first place," she said, digging through the crumpled flower petals and smashed mushroom caps inside until she found the bottle inside. Only, it wasn't labeled. She uncorked the bottle and gave it a sniff. The inside of her nose burned. Definitely one for curing diseases. "Now, gentlemen! Throw open the gates! I've got a duty to uphold!" Suleh shouted as she strutted into the dank cage. A quick motion with her thumb popped the cork out of the bottle and onto the floor.

His eyes opened weakly and his lips parted as she held him in her arms. Suleh dumped the potion into his open gullet and tossed the bottle away.

Thaum shivered and smacked his tongue, probably trying to keep it down. When his face turned a shade greener than it had been, Suleh took that as an opportunity to bounce away to safety. She didn't want to spend the rest of the evening washing stains out of her clothes.

Thaum sat on the floor, curled up and gagging, but seemed to regain a bit of strength in only a few minutes. At last, he sat up and met the faces bearing down on him. "If I talk, you'll let me go, won't you?" he asked, his voice sounding like it was pulled to the point of breaking.

Pinard leaned against the bars and crossed one leg in front of the other. "Depends on what you have to say," he said. "At the moment, I'm still trying to decide if we ought to hand you over to the Headsman or not."

Thaum answered him with a cough. "I'm not a fool," he said. "And I know I'm not in any place to bargain so you can drop the 'tough captain' act. I'm either going to die from this damned curse or be dragged back to Rayles and killed there."

Pinard glanced over his shoulder, a bit of surprise on his face. "Why would you be dragged back there?"

"Because they're coming here," Thaum said, apparently unbothered. "That was the plan, anyway."

Pinard closed his fists around the bars and pushed his face in between them. "When?" he growled.

Thaum buried his face in his hands and shivered. "What's today?" he asked.

"Stop stalling!" Pinard shouted.

"I'm not!"

"Twenty-first of Hearthfire," Isro stated calmly.

When Suleh saw Thaum's face tighten into a grimace, her skin erupted into goosebumps.

"Then, unless something's changed in their plans, probably at sunrise," Thaum said.

Captain Pinard pushed off the bars. "Damn it!" he shouted. "How many of them?"

Thaum shook his head. "I don't have a number for sure. Seventy at the least but there can't be much more than one hundred at the most."

Pinard folded his bottom lip between his fingers. His pacing around the room and his muttered curses were enough to set Suleh on edge more than she already was. Through Isro, she'd been given a rough estimate of how many guards were in the city. With those kinds of numbers, the bandits from Fort Rayles could nearly match the garrison's size.

"Isro, Suleh, with me!" Pinard said with a snap. He led them both out of the holding cell room and into the corridor where he stopped.

"Should I tell the Countess?" Isro asked without prompt.

"No, son," Pinard said. "You've done plenty. I'll send someone else to the castle. Let your sister take you home so you can rest up. We'll be needing you when things come to a head. I'm going to see if I can't get anything else out of him in the meantime."

"But, sir, I can –"

"That's an order, Isro!" Pinard snapped.

Suleh watched Isro's mouth stretch into a perfectly straight line – his brow furrowing again. She put her arm around him, feeling his back sink as he accepted defeat.

"Actually, before you go, I've got another question," Pinard asked before they could leave the corridor. "You mentioned that you had a reason for leaving that woman in the forest. Why?"

Isro shrugged. "I'm sorry, sir, but…"

Pinard turned around. "Be honest with me," he said, "He's not just spouting nonsense, is he? It's related to this curse he mentioned, isn't it?"

"I'm afraid he's telling the truth, sir," Isro said.

Pinard's expression held some manner of tightly restrained worry. "And this curse? How does it show itself?"

"You just saw it," Isro said. "It looks like a plague, but it isn't one that can be cured. It spreads from person to person either through direct contact or through closeness and takes root in just a couple of days. From there, it doesn't take long to become debilitating."

Pinard's face fell. "Then anyone showing symptoms is living on borrowed time," he said. "All of us are. Why in Oblivion did you bring it here, then?"

Isro shook his head. "I didn't. It was already here," he said. "Sir, I know it sounds grim but we still have a chance to survive. We can stave off the symptoms with enough potions like we were planning on doing for those bandits at Silverbank. It's temporary, I know, but the woman I went with is a close friend of ours. She's going to find the witch that placed the curse and make her remove it."

"How do you know we can trust her?" Pinard asked.

Isro tensed against Suleh's hand as if he took offense to that. "If it weren't for her, Sis and I might've been trapped in Hammerfell during the rebellion against the Dominion," he said. "It's no exaggeration to say that I trust her with my life."

Pinard shook his head and chuckled humorlessly. "That much, huh?" he said, turning his back to them. "Placing the fate of the whole city in the hands of a woman I've never even spoken to. Must be losing my damned mind. I hope she knows how to bargain with witches as well as she knows how to flee Provinces, then."

Suleh tugged at Isro's arm, yet he still stood immobile – clenching and unclenching his fists.

"You're going to tell the Vigil of Stendarr about the curse, aren't you?" Isro asked, his voice a low rumble. "And if not you, the Countess will?"

Pinard shook his head, sighing as if he'd already accepted he'd been found out. "You know that I have to report this to her, son," he said. "It doesn't matter if the problem is solved by this friend of yours or not before anyone catches so much as the sniffles. I'd still be charged with treason if she ever found out I'd keeping secrets from her. What she does after that is beyond my control."

"Sir!" Isro snapped.

Pinard dropped his head low. "I'll do my best to put in a good word for you," he said. "Spin it in a way that maybe they'll pass you and Suleh over during the investigation. I'm sorry, but I've got my family to think about, as well."

Suleh could imagine the heat from Isro's glare. She wondered if Pinard could feel it.

"I'm sorry," Pinard mumbled. "I really am, but my hands are tied."

Isro gritted his teeth hard enough that Suleh's own hurt faintly. He grabbed her by the arm and pulled her along behind him as he stormed out of the room. His hands were shaking. "It's not us I'm worried about, you old fool," he said under his breath, "It's _her_."


	14. The Secrets We Keep

14

.~~~.

The door groaned open as Tobias, Anvil's blacksmith, strolled out of the Chapel of Dibella and into the stone-paved street. He stopped, scratched at his shoulder where Ysadette had healed the burn mark from his latest accident, before raising a hand to wave goodbye to her. He didn't give his thanks in a verbal manner, but judging by the direction he walked, Ysa guessed he was on his way back to his forge. From what she gathered in the one-sided conversation they'd shared, he would mutter his words of gratitude when he noticed he could swing a hammer without wincing in pain at every flex of his muscles.

It was for that reason Ysadette was glad to see him go, actually. As blatant a violation to the Chapel's rules about expecting favors in return as it was, a sizable part of her wished he'd offer to lower Andard's debt as thanks. Her small talk about his pregnant wife and how happy she was for them both didn't seem to pierce that icy exterior of his, either. After enough failed attempts, she understood why Andard didn't bother to put up a fight. Much like Andard, Tobias seemed to have two minds; one for camaraderie and one for the impartiality that was business. Unlike Andard, however, the two halves didn't seem to overlap in any noticeable way.

When the doors shut again, the chapel fell quiet – save for the whispering priestesses exchanging the juiciest gossip. Ysadette rubbed her hands along her back, hoping it would alleviate the soreness that arisen from standing on the hard stone floor for the better part of the day. She slumped down in the pews when she was sure none of the priestesses were looking her way.

That morning, she'd told herself that she would stop at midday at the latest. But, there she was, still in the Chapel an hour before sunset and feeling as if she'd rather lie down in the pews for the night than drag herself back home. Healing the wounds of one or two of Anvil's people wasn't a difficult job. Such spells were easy enough to cast, but having to mend a seemingly endless line of injuries without a break left her mind an incoherent mess.

And, sensing a moment to rest, her wandering thoughts decided they wanted nothing more than to vex her by asking the same unanswered questions about Ulpo.

" _A fool,"_ Ulpo had said. The words left her chilled to the bone every time she thought of them, of the language his limp body communicated as he spoke.

Ysadette had tried to coax him into explaining himself. All he'd do is laugh, cross his eyes and call her a "silly girl." It seemed that only the forgetful old elf was there, never answering her questions because he claimed he had no idea what she was talking about. The remorseful figure that he'd been for a short time hadn't peeked out since.

At times, she wondered if she wanted him to anyway. It only made her wonder if she had made a mistake bringing him into her home.

"Something on your mind, dear?" Mother Lalia, the eldest priestess in the Chapel, said as she approached.

"What makes you think that?" Ysa asked as Lalia sat down next to her.

"Well, you've been acting a bit distant today," she said. She folded her hands in her lap and exhaled. "Are you and Andard having any, er, issues because of him losing his store? Anything you want to talk to me about?"

Ysadette shook her head. "He's been worried to death about how he's going to pay off his debts with an income of zero Septims, but otherwise he seems to be relatively unfazed by what's happened," she said, squeezing her thumbs together until they were red. "I suppose his happiness could also be insincere, though."

 _It is my fault, after all. He's probably furious with me, but he doesn't want to say it._

Lalia took Ysadette's hands in her own. "Don't you worry yourself about it," she said. "Andard is a good man. He has a good heart in his chest and a good head on his shoulders. The Divines would've considered that plenty for most people, but they've given him an extra advantage that nobody else in the world has."

Ysa titled her head at Lalia. "And that is?"

Lalia's lined face softened into a smile warm enough Ysadette could feel it radiating through their joined hands. "He has you by his side," she said. "As long as the both of you are together, I don't have a doubt in my mind that you'll be able to overcome anything that comes your way."

"That's what I'm worried about the most," Ysa said, exhaling the uncomfortable breath trapped in her chest. "What if I'm not able to help? What if in some way I'm the one that caused the problem? What then?"

"Listen to me, dear," Lalia said, tightening her grip on Ysa's hands. "You aren't going to be perfect and you don't have to be. Do you remember what I told you that day you came to me, bawling your eyes out because you thought you'd made him angry? When you were worried that he didn't want anything to do with you anymore?"

Ysa's cheeks grew hot. "I, er, remember." More than three years behind her and that day still made her want to shrink until she was invisible. The number of people in Anvil that saw her sobbing her way across town was something she could go to the grave not knowing and still have peace.

"Tell me what I said, then," Lalia insisted.

Ysa rolled her shoulders forward. "That if he really loves you, he'll stand by you no matter what happens, even when he's angry," she said. "He knows that you aren't perfect all the time. And he knows that he can't be perfect all the time either and that you'd be there to make up his difference. The least he can do is be there to make up yours."

"And?"

"And to wipe the running eyeliner from my cheeks and keep my head up," Ysa said. "Hard feelings will come to both of us at some point, but it's up to us whether or not we let them go."

Lalia's grin was an unfettered display of self-assuredness. "So?"

Ysa shrugged. "It's a wonderful sentiment, I suppose. But I don't think sentiments can fix a collapsed building and dig us out of debt."

Lalia shook her head, sighing until she'd deflated her lungs completely. "You're still awfully young, dear," she said. "You've got plenty of time to – "

A scream broke the peace inside the chapel. Ysadette pulled away from Lalia and whirled around to see a priestess shoved to the ground. The priestess scrambled away as a pair of blue-robed figures entered. Their faces were mostly obscured by the hoods, making the already towering figures more imposing than they had any right to be.

"Thalmor Justiciars," Mother Lalia whispered almost immediately. "Why in Dibella's name are they here? We've done nothing wrong!"

Ysadette's stomach knotted. She had heard stories of the Justiciars, about how they were always lurking in the shadows. She'd never seen them up close. Not while she was back home in High Rock and not in all the years she'd lived in Cyrodiil. After finally having the displeasure of seeing them right in front of her, she knew that she never wanted to again.

One of the Thalmor Justiciars paused for a moment and scanned the chapel, disregarding the priestesses with a loathing glare.

Ysadette searched for any reason to leave, but she couldn't look away from them. If they were as ruthless as she'd heard, then giving them any reason to notice her would throw her life in question.

As if one of the Justiciars was fed up with his own air of mystery, he tugged at the back of his hood and revealed his face.

The long wisps of his white hair were like clouds stretched thin – almost to translucency – and placed on someone's head to fall freely to his chest. His skin was much the same; pale. Not a hint of an Altmer's typical gold tone was present, but it was almost as white as the snow-capped mountain peaks to the North. Still, there was something ghastly about him as well that made his ethereality turn sour.

Ysa didn't have to wait long to find out why.

Mother Lalia swooned and clasped her hands together. She bowed her head in prayer. "Not him," she choked, "Please, Lady Dibella. Preserve us. Please, please don't let him take anyone away."

"Who is he?" Ysa asked, trying to keep the tone of her voice from turning frantic.

Lalia didn't seem to hear her. She glanced up at the Thalmor agents and recoiled again. She shut her eyes tighter until they were lost in wrinkles. "Maybe he left it at home," she muttered. "Maybe we're safe."

"Left what at home?" Ysa scream-whispered. "Mother Lalia, please!"

The Justiciar continued to look over the room, posture stiff and proper, yet disinterested and self-assured.

Until his scrutinizing gaze stopped at Ysadette. He clasped his hands behind his back and whispered something in the ear of his comrade. "You there," he said, pointing directly at Ysadette. "Come here."

Ysadette shot a glance at Lalia, hoping for advice. Lalia was still deep in her blank-gazing panic attack and muttering words incoherently. Ysa gulped – the pounding in her chest stopping and starting like even it didn't know what to do – but she stood to her feet and walked around the pews towards the Justiciar anyway. She could already feel his impatience bearing down on her. And the eyes of the other priestesses watching in horror.

"What is your name, Breton?" he asked.

"Ysadette Ence," she answered.

His eyes narrowed at her. "I am Lord Ravano," he said and pushed his hand against his chest. "Grand Headsman of the Third Aldmeri Dominion and ranking officer of the Thalmor Embassy here in Cyrodiil." He quickly traced her with his eyes. "You don't appear to be one of the priestesses."

"I'm not," Ysa said, "But I come by to help them heal the wounded whenever I can."

A sly smirk grew on Ravano's face. "Then, you're a mage?" he said. "At the very least, you're someone with magical prowess ample enough for the Chapel to place its trust in you?"

Ysa nodded. "I am, but what does that…"

Lord Ravano waved his hand to silence her. "The Aldmeri Dominion was alerted to a magical anomaly in this city a few days ago," he said. "My associate and I were dispatched by direct order from Queen Andralia of Alinor to investigate the cause of this disturbance. We are to interrogate every unaffiliated mage in this city until we find the culprit. Now, if you'll cooperate, this will only take a moment of your time." Lord Ravano motioned to the Justiciar at his side. "Go ahead, Morar."

Morar, the other Justiciar, grabbed Ysa by the back of the neck jabbed two fingers to her forehead.

She tried to push him away but unwelcome energy surged through her mind and bounced around in her skull like a bolt of lightning.

"Residual energy mixed with her innate magicka stores," Morar said, his voice flat as a plateau. "Same as everyone else in town, it seems."

"She's the last one that's listed in the census," Lord Ravano said, "Are you sure there isn't anything else?"

"Yes, I…" Morar paused and frowned, adjusting his fingertips.

Ysa's heart dropped into her stomach and tried to keep going when it hit the bottom.

"No, actually," he said. "I felt something just a moment ago. Something different." He removed his hand from her neck and patted her on the shoulder as if to comfort her before putting both thumbs on her forehead and poking around in her further.

"Any idea of what it may have been?" Ravano asked.

Morar pursed his lips and moved his fingers around on the side of Ysadette's head. "I've never felt anything like it. I'm sorry."

"Then describe it," Ravano said, sounding irritable, "As best as you are able."

"Heat?" Morar said, sounding unsure. "Some peculiar thumping as well. Intensifying the heat with its rhythm. As if someone were pounding a drum from far away. I'm not sure how else to put, to be honest with you." Morar's eyes widened and a soft chuckle crawled out of his lips. "My, my. And something else I believe I _am_ familiar with."

 _Kynareth, Dibella, Y'frre, Magnus. Please. Please let him be wrong. Please, just let him be an idiot._

Morar blinked hard and he removed his hands from Ysa's head, dropping them to his side. "Daedra. No doubts there," he said, his voice echoing in the dead silence of the Chapel. "I'm not sure when, but she's had dealings with one before. Judging by what I'm feeling, I believe it was no less than a Prince. Always have been fond of leaving their marks on those that dare to associate with them."

Ysadette could see the priestesses, including Mother Lalia, cower at that revelation. They couldn't know. Would they think of her differently? Would they turn on her?

"Tsk, tsk, tsk. A little treasure trove, aren't you?" Ravano said, smirking that self-aggrandizing smirk he seemed to wear as often as he could. "However, we aren't Vigilants of Stendarr. I have very little interest in her supposed involvement with the Daedra."

"Then there is no more," Morar said. "What do you make of this, Milord?"

Lord Ravano crossed his arms and looked at Ysadette through eyes squinted so heavily they were barely lines. He stroked his chin, nodding and moving his lips as if speaking to himself.

Ysadette fought her urge to sprint. She didn't know where to. Anywhere but there. Before he found out more.

Ravano paced around her once more, his gaze scorching her as he looked for things she was afraid to think about. He stopped when he was in front of her again.

"I suppose that will be all then," Ravano said and motioned for Morar to follow. He stopped short of leaving the chapel and bowed his head, glancing at everyone in the Chapel except for Ysa. "I apologize, priestesses, for interrupting your worship. Please, I beg you to forgive me for my intrusion."

Ravano raised his head up and locked his eyes on Ysadette. As a final act, he turned to shut the door behind him and flashed a smirk at her as if he knew how close she was to breaking.

It chilled her to the bone. Part of her wanted to scream. The other part wanted to be sick, but her throat closed on the rising burn and shut out the air trying to force its way in and out of her lungs.

He knew. He knew everything. They were going to come after her. For what she'd done. Or for Ulpo. That was the only explanation. It had to be.

Mother Lalia cleared her throat almost a full minute after they had left. She folded her hands and ascended the steps towards the entryway where Ysa was stuck in place. Her footsteps sounded so loud. "Dear," she said as she placed a hand on Ysa's shoulder gentle enough that she wouldn't move something as lightweight as a feather, "I-I believe you need to go now."

Ysadette pushed her hand away and turned to face her. "I haven't associated with any Daedra," she sputtered. "You have to believe me. I would never…"

"Shh," Lalia wrapped her arms around her and squeezed tight. "I know. I know you wouldn't. It was just a tactic of theirs. An attempt to frighten you into talking. But you need to listen to me. And listen well."

"I'm listening," Ysa said.

"You must not stay here," Lalia said, her fingers clenching the back of Ysa's head. "You _cannot_ stay here. Do you understand?"

Ysadette could feel the Lalia's entire body shaking against her. "Yes."

"You need to go home," Mother Lalia said. "Find Andard and go home. Close your windows. Lock the door and don't answer it no matter who knocks. Not even if it's one of us. Pack whatever it is you need and get out of Anvil." Lalia shuddered again, daring to breathe. "Tonight. Don't wait. Don't speak to anyone else on your way. Go straight there. Right now."

The moment Ysadette was free from Lalia's arms, she rammed the door open and ran into the brick streets. This couldn't be happening.

 _Please,_ she prayed as she ran, _Anyone that is listening. Preserve us_.

.~~~.

Ysadette should've known that the witch was going to choose somewhere swampy. In all the stories she'd heard, Ysa couldn't figure out if they choose those places because they liked them or not. To her, the feeling of Divines knew what squishing underneath her feet as she trudged through the swamp was something deserving of her most disgusted gagging. It was even worse because of the rain that had come through recently, too.

Sloppy goop that turned her stomach at the slightest whiff had traveled all the way up to her waist. Either it was because of Glodon's thrashing around at the smallest of stirring in the swamp or from the two times she'd fallen into a hole. She'd already been far beyond caring where it came from. The moment she was back in Chorrol, she'd take not one, not two, but _three_ baths until she couldn't even remember the smell of the swamp. Maybe even four.

She didn't even want to think about how rancid it must've been without a stopped-up nose.

"You sure she'd come out here?" Glodon asked, walking with an exaggerated gait. "I mean, the old lady we tried robbing looked awfully frail. I can't imagine her making this kind of trip every day."

Ysa didn't bother to look over her shoulder at him. Let alone offer a verbal response. Glodon had complained the entire way, despite her assurance that Clairvoyance wasn't going to lead them wrong this time. She knew what she felt in the woods where the witch had supposedly been. That kind of magic she knew from firsthand experience.

"Look, I'm over here trying to make nice," Glodon said. "You could at least try and do the same since we might be the last person either sees while we're alive."

Ysa stopped. "Are you ready to give me my necklace back?"

Glodon shut his mouth.

"Until then, I don't have any intention of being nice," Ysa said. She sank knee-deep into the mud. She yelled a curse to the sky and worked her way back up again. "I wouldn't even be out here if it wasn't for you. You and the rest of your friends could be living long, healthy lives if you hadn't dedicated yourself to robbing travelers, you know."

Glodon shrugged. "I suppose we could. But I've never met a nice man that has coin too."

Ysa whipped her head around and glared at him. "And I've never met a bandit that isn't painfully moronic."

She didn't need to imagine how that probably got under his skin. "Keep that up and I'll never tell you where your necklace is," Glodon said.

A cough barreled out of her lungs as she opened her mouth to tell him what she thought of him. There were more important things at stake than winning a verbal battle with him, so she let him have the last word. For now.

After wading through mud much longer than Ysa had hoped they would have to do, the swampiness began to lessen. The ground, while still sloppy, regained a bit of firmness and the smell grew considerably better. The relief it granted her already exhausted legs was even more welcome than the clearer air. Evening had become night by then, making the long shadows in the swamp grow taller – resembling monsters reaching out for them both.

She supposed there was a monster lurking nearby. One she hoped she'd be able to avoid meeting with again.

It was far into the night when the fog trail of Clairvoyance encircled a rickety house in the middle of a clearing. Ysadette swallowed hard.

Glodon crept up behind her and followed her line of sight. "That's it?" he whispered. "It just looks like a plain old house!"

"Wait until we get closer," Ysa said. "You won't be saying that for long."

The details of the hanging decorations became clear as they approached the torchlight clearing. Bones – some still bloodied – and poisonous substances that Ysa only knew from Suleh's alchemy manuals were hanging from the crooked tree limbs. Severed heads of various animals, forest trolls included, were hanged as well, much to her surprise.

Ysa held out her arm to stop Glodon before they passed beyond the wooden spikes marking the witch's territory. "Before we go any further, I want to make myself very clear," she said. "You aren't going to say anything unless I say so. Not a word. Understand?"

"Think I'll mess it up?"

"Yes," Ysadette said. "Witches in service to Daedric Princes are known for being extremely ill-tempered. Probably a side-effect of being reviled by everyone and everything, right as they may be. Peryite and his followers are among the most reviled because of what he represents, right beside Molag Bal and Namira. Couple that with the fact that you've already made yourself an enemy of her and I'd consider you extraordinarily lucky if she doesn't simply kill you on sight."

Glodon nodded. "Makes sense. But we're probably as good as dead anyway if you don't figure something out so I don't see how it matters."

Ysa huffed and started towards the house. "Just be quiet and let me try to resolve this without bloodshed."

"And if you can't?" Glodon asked.

"You already said it. We're probably as good as dead anyway."

Ysadette stood at the door and knocked, steadying her breath as she heard stirring from the other side. One part of negotiating was keeping a level head. If she couldn't do that, keeping the other party from noticing would do well enough.

The door opened and an old woman with her gray hair pulled into a tight bun stepped out. She looked at Ysadette and laughed. "Lost in the swamp, are we?" she asked. "Town is the other way. Hop to it before something bad happens to you."

Ysa shook her head and coughed. "Drop the act. You know why I'm here," she said and pointed to Glodon. "I assume you recognize this Bosmer."

The witch folded her arms and leaned against the doorframe. "I do," she said, her smile growing across her wrinkly face. "One of the same that tried to rob me. And one of the original few that received the blessing."

Glodon opened his mouth but shut it again when Ysadette glared at him.

"I guess you're here about the blessing, too, aren't you?" the witch said. "Spread from him to you. From you to others, didn't it? Lord Peryite's gifts are a beautiful thing, aren't they? So intelligent, so virulent that you'd think they have a mind of their own."

Ysa crossed her arms. "You can stop trying to cushion the truth," she said. "It's not a blessing. It's a curse and you know it."

The witch lowered her chin and laughed. "What you call a curse, I call a blessing," she said. "How could you come to know the Taskmaster without first being given his gifts? How could you prepare yourself to meet him face-to-face in The Pits without understanding that he was by your side at your most vulnerable? That he was teaching you through your pain?"

"Because I know him already," Ysa said. "And I've decided that I want nothing to do with him."

The witch raised an eyebrow. "A former worshipper?"

"A curious child that couldn't truly comprehend what she was dealing with," Ysa said. "And one that grew into a wiser woman who understands how vile most of the Princes truly are. And how their followers only submit to them because they're afraid."

The witch chuckled. "Yes, I suppose you were," she said. "You've got the look about you. The look of a woman who knows more than she lets on. Who knows things she's afraid of knowing, yet craves more. Until she's lost herself in knowledge forbidden to us whose lives are but a single note in the world's song." The witch stopped to lick her cracked lips. "Oh, but take care, fledgling Seeker, where it is that you search. You just may catch the eyes of the One you shouldn't."

Ysa shook her head. "Play your mind-games all you like," she said, "I'm not going to entertain you. I came here to have this curse removed and I'm not leaving you in peace until it is."

The witch's smile deepened. She pushed off from the doorframe and strolled into the house, gesturing to follow with her finger.

"You can't be serious!" Glodon snapped.

"I said be quiet!" Ysa shouted. She couldn't afford to have his flapping gums mess things up after she'd already made it so far. "Come inside with me. I have this under control."

Glodon nodded slowly and grumbled curses under his breath as they both entered the house. The creaky door shut behind them and locked itself.

It smelled foul inside the house. Ysadette figured it would. Being in the Chapel exposed her to some grizzly wounds – some horrifyingly infected. The air inside the tiny shack didn't smell much different, but it was, like all things at the moment, another distraction to prevent her from striking a deal. None of them would be successful.

The witch sat down in a chair next to the fireplace and rocked it back and forth. A rather sizable rat, a gangrenous laceration deep enough to see it's spine jutting from its back, scampered across the floor. It settled behind the witch's chair and watched Ysa with unflinching attention despite the fact that she was sure it was utterly blind.

"You're my guests, aren't you?" the witch asked. "Sit down. Rest your feet. Perhaps I'll whip us up something to eat!" The witch rocked back in her chair and laughed.

Ysa narrowed her eyes at the witch until she stopped giggling. "I'll stand, thank you," she said.

The witch breathed another laugh through her nose. "My word! Aren't you an unpleasant one?"

Ysadette coughed into her hand, feeling the resurgence of her symptoms. "Being told I'm going to die in a few days doesn't do me any favors in controlling my temper, I'm afraid," she said. "Now, I'm not new to this so let's not waste any time. I know that your type commonly makes deals with those that dare to seek you out."

The witch nodded – silent except for the creaking of her chair.

"I can bring you whatever it is that you want so long as you remove the curse from everyone that's been affected by it," Ysadette said.

Rocking in her rocking chair, the witch only nodded as if she expected Ysa to continue.

"So?" Ysa asked, shifting her weight to one side so she wouldn't wobble visibly. "Are you going to speak up or not?"

The witch shook her head. "I'm afraid there isn't anything you can do," she said. "Anything that you'd be _willing_ to do, that is."

"You say that as if it's surprising," Ysa said. "I've already said that I'm not new to this. Your type always wants awful things done to innocent people. That's why you're unwelcome anywhere you go."

The witch crossed her leg over the other and licked her lips again, evidently pleased with the turn the conversation had taken. "Oh, but that is the issue isn't it?" she asked. "Always demanding that innocent blood is spilled, aren't we?"

Ysa narrowed her eyes. The witch wasn't about to gain a conscience. Not now.

She licked her lips once more. "I like you, girl," she said. "You remind me a bit of myself when I was young. When luring men into my home was as simple as showing a bit of leg and a wink."

"That's not much of a compliment, coming from you," Ysadette said.

The witch grinned wide. "If you weren't so ugly, that is," she said. "Tell me, does anyone find that nose attractive? How about those small features of yours?"

"Resorting to childish insults?" Ysa said, tilting her head to one side and smiling as insincerely as the witch was. "Aren't you a bit too old for that?"

Glodon stood back, looking between them as if he also wanted to join into the insult exchange, but Ysadette glared at him once more to make sure he didn't.

The witch didn't laugh anymore, but her smile didn't waver either. She stood up from her rocking chair and shuffled across the room towards the fire.

Her pet rat bounded away into the dark, still watching Ysadette with its cloudy eyes.

"I suppose I am getting old, thank you very much," she said as she opened up a small box on the mantle. "And I don't imagine I've got many years left in this world so I won't waste any more of our time together in it." The witch removed a deep purple gem as thick as her spindly arm. She turned and tossed it to Ysadette. "Here, then. You know what must be done. Get to it, girl."

Ysa held the gem in both hands, closing her fingers around it as she fought off the urge to throw it back at the old woman. Damn her.

Glodon peered over Ysa's shoulder. "What is it?" he asked.

The witch crossed her arms. "Oh, don't look so horrified," she said. "You were the one complaining about how my 'type' is always asking for innocent blood. Innocent souls, rather. I won't ask for one, then."

Ysadette held the gem to her chest. The witch had her right where she wanted her to be.

Glodon looked up at the witch, confusion present on his face. "What do you want, then?"

"A soul that isn'tinnocent. One that's tainted with greed," the witch emphasized, locking her gaze on Glodon. "Yours, for instance."

Glodon froze. "What?" he gasped. "W-why do you want me?"

"I've been in need of a soul for an enchantment I wish to perform. A black one, specifically," the witch said. "Only found in living, sentient beings of humanoid shape. I used to have plenty of them tucked away in my strongbox, but I've found the swamp too strenuous to traverse as of late and the travelers fewer than before. Without any means of replenishing them, my supply of soul gems finally ran dry over the past few months."

Glodon stepped back until he was pressed against the wall. "T-then why don't you just use something else?" he asked. "What about one from a bird? Wouldn't that work?"

The witch frowned. "Souls from animals don't hold the same power that ones found in both man and mer," she said. "As the strength of the enchantment increases, so does the power that's required to place it. In order to place the strongest enchantments, only a black soul will suffice."

Glodon turned around and grabbed the door handle. He pulled on it with all his might, yet despite it's worn appearance, it didn't budge.

Ysadette squeezed the soul gem in her hands. "Is there any other way?" she asked.

The witch shook her head. "No," she said. "If you want me to remove the curse from you and those who've been affected by it, then you'll fetch me his soul. It's only fair, isn't it? That he pay for his crimes? That you have your revenge on him?"

Ysa looked at the witch. Wrong move. Never show your surprise in a negotiation.

"He has something of yours, doesn't he?" the witch asked. "Something very dear to you. Something that means so much that you would risk your life to have it back, to feel the cool touch of it against your skin."

Ysa avoided the witch's eyes. She still had a chance to salvage this. "I don't know what you're talking about," she said.

"Oh please, child," the witch said with a chuckle, "I could hear it before you arrived. The pain it feels being cut off from you causes it to wail without end. As you would, should you not have it returned to you."

"It's just a trinket," Ysa said. The words tried to choke her on the way out.

"Do you want to know a secret?" the witch asked as she approached Ysadette and laid her hands on her shoulders. "I want you to have it back. Yes, I'm telling the truth. Some feelings can linger on an item. They can gain their own power. A power that you can claim as your own. That I _want_ you to claim as your own." The witch leaned over until her lips were almost touching Ysadette's ear. "Fitting, no? Isn't that what knowledge is to you, child? Is it not power? Isn't that all you truly want from life?"

Ysa pushed her away and spun around to face Glodon. She focused all the anger she'd felt for him since he'd ripped her necklace away that day in the rain to bring embers to life in her palm.

"Please, you can't do this!" he shouted, yanking the door handle again before dropping to his knees. "I'll give you your necklace back! Just let me live!"

The witch threw her head back and laughed. "Where is the confidence you had when you held your dagger against my throat?" she said, cackling with glee. "Where are your threats? Have they failed you?"

Ysadette clenched her fist and the embers became a roaring fire.

Glodon put his face against the floor. "Don't do this!" he screamed. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry for stealing from you!"

Ysadette raised her hand and readied the fireball in it. Glodon continued to scream. Without looking, Ysa spun on her heel and launched the fireball at the witch.

A plume of fire erupted from the spot the witch was standing on, but her laughing continued. As it died down, Ysa could see that the old woman was still there, not even the grayest of her hairs singed.

Ysadette wasn't surprised.

"Did you believe that you'd gain the upper hand on me, child?" she cackled, dusting off an ember that settled on her shoulder. "Do you think that you're the first person to try that? I've dealt with innumerable visitors that thought they could simply toss a bit of flame at me and turn me to dust. I learned how to cast and how to repel all manners of fire spells when I was barely able to speak. You'll need to try much harder than - "

Ysa readied Telekinesis in her hand, the same she was holding the soul gem in. With a flick of her wrist, the soul gem became a projectile.

It slammed into the witch's forehead. She stumbled back, her arms flailing around. The gem didn't stop until it embedded itself in the wood panel of the wall.

Ysa yanked her arm back like she was holding a rope. The soul gem ripped out from the wall. She stuck her arm out straight and locked her elbow. With a flick of her fingers, the gem hurtled towards the witch again and struck her square in the back.

The witch's playfulness vanished. She snagged the gem and held it in front of herself. "So, you want to throw my things around, do you?" She let go of the gem.

Ysa pulled again, but it didn't move.

The hanging decorations on the walls shuddered. The fire roared until it outgrew the mantle. A knife on the table across the room shot towards Ysa. She threw her arm up.

Her vision went white. Pain traveled up her forearm like lava had replaced her blood. Ysa grabbed the knife and yanked it out of her arm.

"Then let's throw things!" the witch screamed. A free hanging bone decoration tore free from its string and slammed into Ysa's back. It whirled around and hit her in the stomach, forcing the breath out of her.

Ysa held up both hands and curled her fingers. Both the gem and the knife came to her side – the bone shivering the air as they both fought for dominance over it. Ysa turned the knife at the witch.

"I'm not going to ask again!" Ysa shouted, "Remove the curse!"

The witch mirrored her stance. The house shuddered. Cracks ran up the wall and the fire lifted from the fireplace, swirling into a dense ball of heat. "Then what are you waiting for? Give it your best shot, girl!"

"Stop this at once!" A booming voice commanded.

The witch's eyes went wide. She let go of everything she was holding and planted her face against the floor in an instant.

Ysa threw her hands forward. The gem and knife rocketed towards the old woman.

The rat hiding in the corner sprinted out from the dark and leaped into the air, catching the knife with its own body. Not a squeak came from its tiny mouth as it landed. Instead, it simply turned to face Ysadette and sat straight up.

A skittering sound filled the room. Through every orifice in the house, a legion of rats – all sick and decaying like the first and largest one – scrambled in.

Glodon screeched and clawed at the walls as they amassed around the first one, piling their bodies on top of each other until it was high enough to see Ysadette eye-to-eye.

The witch's pet rat did its best to smile given that it didn't have the facial structure needed for the action. "My, how you've grown," it said in the booming voice that had spoken before. The air seemed to rot at the sound. "I didn't recognize you at first, but now I can see that it is indeed you. It's been a while since we've spoken."

Ysadette healed the bleeding wound on her arm. "It hasn't been long enough," she muttered, trying not to vomit at the sight of the disgusting creature, "Peryite."

The rat's face twisted oddly as he snickered. "You do remember me, then?" Peryite asked. "Remind me, how many years has it been since I healed your mother of her disease?"

"Twenty," Ysa said, crossing her arms. "And you didn't heal her. She was still sickly when I left High Rock so don't go patting yourself on the back for it."

"Ah, but how beautiful she was in her time of affliction," the rat said. "How her skin erupted with boils that would bring her to tears at the slightest touch. How her muscles atrophied from so many months of disuse, leaving her stranded alone in her bed as she watched the days passing from her window. How her tongue remained dry even as you brought her buckets of water to drink."

"And I won't ever forgive you for putting her through any of that," Ysa said. She leaned forward until she was looming over the rat and glared into his cloudy eyes.

"But it brought you into my presence, did it not?" Peryite said. "Isn't that cause for celebration?"

"I was eight years old," Ysa hissed. "You dangled her life in front of me as if it were your toy to play with. In case I didn't make myself clear back then, allow me to do so now. I want nothing to do with you and I never will."

Peryite stuck his head out and grinned. "Then I suppose we shouldn't waste any time in catching up," he said. "You've come here about my blessing, so let us speak about it. Mortal to immortal. Human to Prince of Oblivion."


	15. Admonition

15

.~~~.

Peryite paced atop the twitching pile of rats, his clouded eyes watching Ysadette as if he were expecting her to make a move. She wasn't sure how the rat he'd chosen to speak through was still alive. The Daedra did have their means of influencing the world so she simply attributed his continued usage to that. It made more sense than a necromantic talking rat impersonating a Prince, anyway.

"I want you to remove the curse immediately," Ysa said, narrowing her eyes at the rat.

"And if I do," Peryite said, "What, then, do you intend to do for me in return?"

Ysa shrugged. "Nothing. I came here to bargain with your worshipper, not you."

The witch, who had fallen to her knees when the rat began to speak, didn't stir.

Peryite looked back at the witch. "Juline, my faithful, did you know that the curse would spread from that foolish Bosmer to her?"

Juline lifted her head. "No, my Lord," she said. "I would have never inflicted such a plague if I knew it would displease you. Forgive me, please."

Peryite turned toward Ysadette again. His rat-faced grin withered away and he grew serious. At least, Ysa though that was how a rat would look if it were. "I will decide a suitable punishment for your hastiness later," he said. "Go into the woods where no one will hear you. Once there, you will flog yourself as you await further instruction."

Juline's eyes grew wide and her mouth dropped open. "But my Lord!" she shouted, "I had no idea she meant so much to you! I promise you that I haven't – "

Peryite scampered down the pile of rats and approached the Juline. She fell backward and pushed herself against the wall, incoherent apologies falling from her lips as she burst into tears.

"Listen to me, my faithful," Peryite said as he climbed onto her leg and looked up at her face. "Don't be afraid. I have not forgotten your service to me. However, since you have trespassed against me, it is only fitting that you be given the proper punishment. How else would you learn, then? If not through suffering, then how?"

Juline nodded her head slowly.

Peryite climbed up to Juline's shoulder and licked the tears on her cheeks away. "It is you that I love," he said. "Her presence will not come between us, no matter the history she and I share. Now, be on your way."

As Peryite leaped from her shoulder and returned to the pile of rats, Juline gathered herself and left the house. Ysa watched her go. The daze in her eyes hadn't been broken as she passed.

"Now then," Peryite said, sitting on his hind legs, "Since that bit of business is taken care of, we can speak without interruption."

"What are you going to do to her?" Ysa asked.

"Nothing," Peryite said without hesitation. "Her self-inflicted wounds and the scars that will form due to them will suffice."

"Making her believe you care just so you can torture her?" Ysa said, shaking her head. "Sick. As always."

Peryite grinned. "Your kind calls me the lord of it," he said. "But that is not what you meant, is it? No. Of course, you didn't. All sicknesses found in the mind come from another, do they not?"

A cough grew in the back of Ysa's throat, trying to travel upwards and remind her of what her goal was. "I'm in no mood for games," she said. "And I have no time for them, either."

Peryite, seemingly disappointed by her response, once again grew serious. "No, you certainly don't," he said, standing up until his body was stretched at an odd angle. "Why do you mortals look upon me and my blessings as if we're something to be feared and not admired? You spend every last one of your short days wondering why I unleash the plagues I do, often insisting that it's for my amusement. Never for a moment do you truly ponder my reasons for doing so."

"That _is_ why you do it," Ysa said. "For whatever reason, your kind see our lives as playthings. You believe that you have the right to terrorize us as you wish."

"Per our status as beings present before your world was even birthed, I believe that grants us such freedom," Peryite said. "If not through tenure, then through power. Even the highest among you mortals are nothing compared to us."

"I suppose you must have been asleep when Mehrunes Dagon found out what us mortals are capable of," Ysadette said as she walked across the room and peered out the window.

"Through the power of your so-called Divines, he was banished," Peryite said. He dropped to the ground and climbed onto the table next to her. "Not through your spirits. Not through the might of man. Not defeated, either. Only moved from one Plane to another – back to where he is rightfully deified."

"And according to your own confessions, Dagon is much more powerful than you are," Ysadette said as she scooped Peryite up in her hands. "So where does that place you, Taskmaster? At the bottom or somewhere in the middle?"

Peryite stood firm in her palms, his blind eyes growing hot with anger. "How quickly your kind forgets," he said. "Just shy of two centuries and you've grown so haughty. A single Prince was all that it took to bring your kingdoms to heel and yet you have the gall to speak to me as if I were truly no more than a rodent in your palms."

Ysadette grabbed Peryite by the tail and dangled him in front of her eye. Glodon, who'd been silent the entire time and making himself small in the corner of the room, squealed.

"Then go ahead," she said. "Prove to me that you aren't just a rat."

Peryite's rat-face twitched. "Without me, there wouldn't be a cyclical nature to your short existences," he hissed. "You'd be trapped between the beginning of it and the end. Without me, your life would have no meaning. The terror you feel when you imagine that it could come to a premature end wouldn't follow your steps. It wouldn't fill you with an unflinching zest for survival. Yet you've all convinced yourselves that I'm somehow weaker than my brethren because you can't understand that the tickle in your chest when you've fallen ill is me. It always has been and always will be."

"Most of your 'blessings' can be cured these days," Ysadette said, taking Peryite in her palms again. "How much does it take for you to spin something truly nasty, I wonder?"

Peryite's little body arched. The hairs on his back that weren't stuck down by blood stood straight. "Let me tell you something," he hissed. "You severely misunderstand what godhood is, girl. All you mortals do. It isn't definable by your measures for the simple fact that it supersedes them entirely. Every letter of the lore you've penned about us is in the same breath true and false. It is both and neither, meaning that we are and we are not as you believe us to be. Yet you cling to whatever feeble idea about us you've work to create in your head about us because it is the closest you shall ever be to knowing our truth. And even then that tiny sliver is more than you could ever fathom, it seems."

"Should I dangle you again?" Ysa asked, smiling at him in a way she knew would infuriate the Prince.

"If it weren't for the Barrier keeping us out, a single one of us could enter your realm and slaughter every living thing on Nirn within _minutes_ ," Peryite said. "If we take our time, that is. That is why I must rely on those faithful to me to dispense my blessings when a shrine isn't nearby. You should consider yourself fortunate that we have to traverse your world in such pitiful forms, in fact. Otherwise, every living being would carry my blessing from birth to death."

"And rats were your first choice for vessels?" Ysa asked.

Peryite glared at her. "It's an insult that I must force myself into this decaying body to stand where I once stood before your kind was given life," he said. "I was there when the world was made. I was there before that, even. When the world wasn't as you know it. When we Princes weren't as you know us."

"So why don't you choose something besides a rat if it's such an insult?" Ysa asked as Peryite ran up her arm, around her back and to her other hand. "Out of all your faithful, none of them would leap at the chance to have you inhabit them?"

Peryite shook his rat head. "Of course they wouldn't," he said. "Even if they threw their arms open for me, I wouldn't inhabit them anyway. Two spirits being present in the same body would crowd us both. It's not an experience would find pleasing in any regard. Having two souls packed into such a tiny space doesn't do well for the body inhabited, either."

"Are Princes afraid of tiny spaces, then?" Ysa said, pulling herself onto the table to sit and letting Peryite take his place on the edge between her legs.

"We fear nothing, girl," Peryite said, looking up at her. "But we are aware of how, er, _unpleasant_ it feels to have a physical form cease to function."

Ysa pressed her hand over the rat. "So if I squished you right now, you'd feel pain?"

Peryite squirmed underneath her palm until his head was free. "Not me. The body would. This vermin would. My soul will remain undamaged no matter the circumstance. What part of eternal don't you understand?"

Ysa took her hand off the rat's body, smiling as she coughed again. "Good to know."

Peryite's eyes narrowed at her and he crawled onto her leg. "Seen through me, have you?" he said, his voice lowering to a growl. "I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. You always have been a keen mortal. That being said, have you decided that you'd rather be daft? That you'd prefer to disregard my warnings instead of heeding them?"

Ysadette crossed her arms. "Perhaps I do," she said. "But what does that matter to you? Aren't you going to let me and the others under your curse die? Oh, I'm sorry. Under your _blessing_ , I should say?"

Peryite bristled and his spine jutted at an odd angle. "Let me remind you of what you likely already know," he said in a flat tone. "This task of yours? It's for fools and only fools. Not for someone who still has a good head on her shoulders. Your attempts at reasoning away the nonsense surrounding it are futile. You're playing with madmen and nothing more."

"I'm speaking with a possessed rat that should've died from his wounds or the infection that's come from them," Ysa said. "I think anything that comes after this will seem rather sensible in comparison."

Peryite climbed up to her shoulder and put his mouth next to her ear. "If you insist on continuing down this doom-bound road, then it is only natural that I question you, is it not?" he said. "Should you find success, are you prepared to face the consequences of what you've done to reach it? What of the little you still hold dear are you willing to sacrifice?"

Peryite's rat-breath blew gently on her ear. Her stomach soured at the smell of his rotten body.

"Your mind?" he continued, "Your freedom? Your life? All three, perhaps? Have you considered that allowing my blessing to free you from the shackles of your mortality would spare you the heartache? That it would save you from the pain that's to come? That the path you've started down only leads to disaster? Food for thought, little one."

Ysa rolled her eyes. "And you care because why?"

Peryite laughed. "Truthfully, I don't," he said. "Not about you, but all of us do enjoy watching a good Game once in a while. You mortals can be so entertaining when you try to overpower us. When your pride causes you to stumble into our waiting hands."

Ysadette grabbed him by the tail and held him out again. "What do you mean by 'Game?'"

Peryite flipped around and nipped her wrist, making her drop him. He crawled back to the top of the still-twitching rat pile and sat down again. "All this time you've spent together and he hasn't told you yet?" he said, evidently pleased to be flaunting his advantageous position. "Has he told you anything at all about himself? Anything besides his name?"

Ysadette bit her tongue.

Peryite's deep laugh thundered in the small house. "My, my, how he's keeping secrets," he said. "Secrets that you ought to know if you wish to participate in this Game he's dragged you into. Perhaps when you return to him, you ought to strangle the answers out of him. Yes, perhaps then you can make him fear you more than he does the truth."

Ysa rubbed her wrist, poking at the scrape with a healing spell until the stinging sensation went away. He hadn't broken the skin with his bite, but not from lack of trying. "You mean Ulpo, don't you?"

"Who else?" Peryite said, his snouted face twisting into a teeth-baring sneer. "It appears that your 'Grandfather' as you've taken to calling him hasn't been very honest with you. Have you ever asked yourself why he's decided to hide from you and everyone else? Why he refuses to answer your questions no matter how direct they are?"

"Because he's mad," Ysa snapped. "He doesn't know what he's doing. I can't expect him to understand everything I ask him, let alone answer me clearly."

Peryite snickered. "Are you sure? Have you wondered how aware he is of the world around him? If the real Ulpo is barely hidden behind a veneer of insanity that you've yet to pierce? Or if that insanity is, in fact, a ruse? That is wasn't thrust upon him, but was chosen by him and him alone?"

Ysadette stood up from the table. The blood rushing around in her head made her wobble and the cough clawing its way out of her throat finally made it out. "I suppose I won't find out if you don't remove the curse," she said.

"And now you understand where it is you stand, girl," Peryite said. "You realize that the moment you cast your lot with ours, you are in over your head without any hope of escape. That every time you engage with one of us, your continued existence is only due to our interest in you or our patience. How fortunate that I am both interested and magnificently patient."

Ysa doubled over. Her chest tightened and her lungs ached. Peryite was trying to test her. "Is that a yes or a no?" she heaved.

Peryite nodded. "Ah, how I'd love to watch you writhe just as your mother did. To see you lose hope as your body fails you," he said. "But alas, I'd hate it even more if it meant I had to interrupt the Game."

"Would you stop being so cryptic, please?" Ysa snapped. "If you know something about Ulpo and his condition, then tell me what it is."

Peryite stood up on his hind legs. "No, I don't believe I will," he said. " You should thank me for that, as well. The politics of Oblivion are as equally complex as us Princes are and you haven't the time to spare. Not while you're carrying my blessing. Or does it truly mean that much to you?"

Ysadette bit her tongue before she could speak again. Now wasn't the time to get greedy.

Peryite snickered to himself. "I didn't think so," he said. "Now, both of you come here and lay your hands on my vessel. I will release you from my blessing."

Glodon looked horrified at the idea, but he cautiously made his way over. Ysa placed her hand on one side of Peryite's rat body while Glodon took the other. Every rat still alive in the pile lifted its head and squealed, Peryite's own he used as a vessel doing so as well.

Ysadette's lungs stopped aching and the pounding in her forehead came to an abrupt end. Nausea deep in her stomach disappeared and she felt strength returning in its place. Her magicka welled up inside her again faster than it had done in quite a while as her mind cleared. Maybe it was just from being so ill, but she felt absolutely reinvigorated.

"Better?" Peryite asked, tilting his rat-head and looking at her with its blinded eyes.

Ysa nodded and looked at Glodon. His face lit up and he took deep breaths through his nose like it were a crisp morning.

A mistake, as he soon understood. He may have been cured, but that didn't mean the house suddenly stopped reeking.

"Better," Ysa said.

"You should consider yourself fortunate that my faithful has built a small shrine to me in here. Otherwise, you'd be seeing her once again if you wanted instantaneous results," Peryite said. "Regardless, I've removed the effects from both of you and taken my blessing away. However, I cannot remove the symptoms from everyone else immediately. Those who were affected by it and not present will need to or drink that vile substance your kind is fond of to fully remove them. Now that we're done, I suggest the both of you leave my followers alone from this point on. Game or not, I won't be so lenient should we meet again."

Ysa made a face. "I think I can manage that."

Peryite laughed. "I should hope so. Besides, girl, you've got somewhere to be, don't you?" he said.

Ysa glanced at him, puzzled. "What do you mean?"

"That city. Chorrol was it?" Peryite said, scratching his face. "The whispers say that it's not going to be peaceful for much longer. I do hope you can run, else you'll be returning to ashes!"

Before Ysa had time to ask him another question, the rat drew in an audibly sharp breath and tumbled to the bottom of the pile. It was dead before it hit the floor.

She sighed and looked at its motionless body. Once again, the answers she wanted had slipped through her fingers. He'd been playing with her from the very beginning, but why? What did he stand to gain from it?

Another question for another time.

Ysa grabbed Glodon by the shoulders and looked him dead in the eyes. She'd have to be angry about it later. Isro's concerns echoed in her head as if he were standing in the room repeating them to her. "What's going to happen to Chorrol?" she asked. "Is it related to the bandits at Fort Rayles?"

Glodon shrugged and swatted her arms away. "I have no idea," he said. "Thaum always handled the scheming side of things so he'd probably know if they were going to do something. He's clever like that."

Ysa crossed her arms. "He didn't say a word to you? About anything?"

Glodon mirrored her stance and puffed out his chest. "No, he didn't," he said, splitting his face wide with a toothy grin. "And speaking of Thaum, you'd better hope that guard friend of yours managed to find him."

Ysadette stepped closer. "And if he doesn't?"

Glodon whistled through his missing tooth. "You know what? That's a good question. Now that I think of it, maybe I should keep that necklace of yours until then," he said. "It'd only be fair that you hold up your end of the bargain before I – "

Ysa backhanded Glodon and watched him reel. By the Divines, it was such pure catharsis she almost wanted to do it another time. "No more games," she hissed. "No more threats and no more lies. You've been keeping secrets from me this entire time and I'm sick of it. I'm giving you a chance to speak up now before I get angry."

Glodon rubbed his cheek. His eyes burned with dumb fury. "You're going to regret that," he growled.

Ysa didn't flinch when he balled his hands into fists. She waved along her side and hardened her skin with a spell. Glodon's fist crashed into the side of her head and stopped. He let out a cry and stepped back, clutching his hand.

Ysadette advanced on him. He threw another punch at her face. It was met with the same results. "After all that you've been through, you still haven't learned how useless threats are when you can't fulfill them?" she asked, shaking her head. "I told you before that I didn't want to kill you and that I preferred to end things without bloodshed."

Glodon raised both hands as if he were ready for a brawl, but continued to back away. His knuckles were already reddened from the failed attempts.

"And I still do," Ysadette said. "However, should you threaten me once more, I'll make you understand how lucky you were that day you robbed me."

Glodon backed away until he was flush against the wall. His mouth opened and closed as if he were preparing another one of his empty threats or meaningless insults.

Ysa stuck out her hand. "My necklace," she said, wiggling her fingers. "Now."

Glodon smiled pathetically. He slowly reached down into his trouser pocket. The sapphire of Ysadette's necklace gleamed in the dim light of the house as he lifted it up between them. "Here," he said, doing poorly to hide his quaking voice. "It's yours."

Ysa snatched it from his hand. A few splotches of the muck they'd waded through to reach Juline's house dulled its shine. It deserved better, so she wiped it clean on her shirt. Rather, she tried to and only smudged it since she was coated in the same muck and grime from head to toe. When she fastened it around her neck, a coil of tension that had only tightened every minute she went without it unwound itself.

"Let's try this once more, shall we?" Ysa said. "Tell me what's going to happen to Chorrol."

Glodon shook his head. "I already told you that I don't know anything," he said. "Not anything of use, anyway. Thaum mentioned something about a raid of some sort a few weeks ago, but I don't know where it'll be and I don't know when. Told me not to worry because he'd let me know more when he was sure the Rayles gang had everything planned out. But if that rat was telling the truth, maybe it was Chorrol they were going after."

Ysa took a deep breath, the urge to backhand him once again growing rapidly. "Why didn't you say anything earlier?" she asked.

"I figured they were going after another gang like they usually do," he said. "They're always trying to add to their numbers by force. It's why we decided to try and join them. Skip the beating, you know? I didn't think they were going after a whole damned city."

"Isro could've gone straight to Chorrol if you had told us earlier," Ysa said. "He could've warned them. Does the entire city mean nothing to you?"

Glodon's expression looked as if she'd just insulted him, his mother, and his grandmother all in the same sentence. "Lady, I've spent the last few days trying to come to terms with the fact that I was going to die," he said. "Only for you to show up out of nowhere and drag me to a witch's house in the middle of a swamp. Then you just walk right into the place and smart-mouth her and a _Daedric Prince_ wearing a rat like it was a pair of trousers without being turned to dust. Frankly, that damned town hasn't been on my mind!"

Ysa spat a curse as she pushed the door open and walked into the night. Judging by the position of the moons, she figured it was already past midnight. An hour at the least. Two at the most.

She massaged her head and groaned. There was no way she'd make it back to the city before it was night again without a horse. If something was going to happen, every second that she wasn't there would count.

An idea flashed through her mind, lighting up as it took shape. There was one way she could get there quickly without a horse, actually.

Glodon stepped out of the house after her and shook his head. "What in Y'ffre's name are you up to now, woman?" he said, whistling through his missing tooth. "Are you so eager to get away from me that you can't even say goodbye?"

"I am, but that's not important right now." Ysa waved her hand, spreading the golden glow over her body. She ran from one end of the clearing to the other, but she was as miserably slow as always. "I'm going to get myself back to Chorrol before it's too late," she said, snapping her fingers in rapid succession. Still nothing.

"By running in circles?"

"By casting the correct spell," she said with a huff. "You remember how my Grandfather and I escaped you in the woods? It was some sort of Alteration spell he used that allowed us to run faster than normal. I need to figure out how he did it."

"Don't you need a spell tome for that?" he asked. Glodon leaned against the door frame and watched her run, grinning and showing his missing tooth.

"I could skip this bit of trial and error," Ysa said, "And for a complex spell, one may as well be necessary, but not for what I'm trying to do." Maybe it was the way she was pointing her fingers. Or the position of her feet. "The spell I want to cast is rudimentary, I think, and I've been toying with Alteration magic since I was a little girl. I should be able to figure it out on my own." She moved her hand around, snapping her fingers in succession, but found no results.

Ysa took a deep breath, letting her thoughts come together and her thumping heart steady itself as she shut her eyes tight.

" _To master Alteration,"_ she whispered to herself, quoting a book she'd once read on the subject, _"First accept that reality is a falsehood."_

Ysa welled up her magicka in the soles of her feet and let it spread up her legs.

" _Express the spell as a subtle change and it is more likely to be successful."_

Ysadette snapped her fingers again and a swirl of light engulfed her. A breeze gathered around her and caused her cloak to billow outward. A single, restrained step forward nearly landed her on her face from the sharp change in velocity. The next time, she ran with a purpose and ended up on the other side of the clearing in a second.

That was it. Ysadette glanced over her shoulder at Glodon. "See? Rudimentary!"

He shrugged. "Yeah, great, rudi-whatever," Glodon said. He smiled that toothy grin of his again, whistling all the while. "If you're going to run off and die in that city, get to it. I'll be coming around to loot the place when the dust settles."

Ysa rolled her eyes. So much for feeling remorse. She didn't have time to worry about that, though. They needed her. She broke into a sprint, a trail of snapping tree limbs and curling leaves left in her wake as the swamp blurred around her. She traced her fingertips over the smooth surface of the cut gemstone around her neck as she ran. Maybe Juline was right about it gaining its own power. Fixation perhaps, but with that much, she'd make do.

Her first stop would be Fort Rayles. Then she'd know for sure what needed to be done – if her months of hiding had truly come to an end.


	16. Obligation

16

.~~~.

Isro could hear Countess Leta's raised voice before he entered the room. Beneath that, only interjected in the sparse seconds Leta used for breathing, he could hear Captain Pinard trying his hardest to soothe her.

Poor man. Isro whispered a prayer for him.

It had been two hours since Isro returned home with Suleh to rest. He figured that Captain Pinard would've been able to talk the Countess down from a tizzy long before he was supposed to come to the Castle to aid in planning their defense. By the sound of it, he wasn't faring well. Isro, from the deepest pits of his being, did not want to be a part of that endeavor. The Countess was a kind woman – well-meaning and willing to do anything for her people – but she was not one to handle stress well.

Isro stopped short of entering the room and let his hand linger on the doorknob. He didn't care to listen to the firestorm of words taking place just beyond it. Something else had frozen him where he stood.

Lieutenant.

He could hardly believe that he'd been promoted so quickly. When Captain Pinard stopped him before leaving the garrison a second time, Isro thought for sure he'd misheard the man. Only when Pinard told him to be back in a few hours' time – preferably healed by a steady intake of potions and ready to fight once again – did he realize that he was indeed serious about it.

Isro wasn't about to argue with him, but he couldn't help but ask himself whether or not the Captain was being hasty in his decision. Going from one of the regular guardsmen to one of Chorrol's Lieutenants in a single day? That was a shock he wondered if he was still reeling from. Suleh, like usual, seemed to be taking the turn of events rather well. She'd bounced like a fawn all the way back to the apothecary and left him wondering why it wasn't the other way around, why didn't he seem to be overjoyed like her.

Promoted. After he'd been taken to task for going unprompted to Fort Rayles by himself, no less. He couldn't understand it.

Isro shoved his doubts into the back of his mind. He'd have plenty of time to think about them later, he hoped. When the door opened, his ears were immediately hit by Countess Leta's barrage of questions. Thankfully, none of them were pointed at him. He took that as a sign to stand by and let Captain Pinard bring the frazzled Countess down to a point of being reasonable.

"And how long do we have, do you figure?" she asked before turning her attention to the gurgling baby in her arms. Her expression softened as she cooed at him, quieting him down. As if having two minds at once, her face hardened again at Pinard.

Captain Pinard leaned against the table and tapped his fingers at the map of County Chorrol. "I can't be sure, Milady," he said. "If our intel is correct, we'll be lucky to have another few hours before they start popping their heads out from the trees line. At that point, we'll be fresh out of time."

Countess Leta shook her head. "That doesn't leave us much room to plan," she said.

Pinard nodded. "I know, but that's why we run drills with the townspeople so often," he said. "In the event that we have a surprise attack, they'll know what to do while the guards take care of the situation."

Her face loosened at that. A drop was taken out of the worry-bucket. "So how have you arranged the rest of the guards?" Leta asked.

Captain Pinard fell silent. "I haven't, Milady," he said, exhaling as if he knew what was coming.

"What are you waiting for, then?" Leta asked. "If you're aware that a raid is coming, why not alert the others so we can avoid making ourselves look like fools?"

Captain Pinard glanced at Isro, looking like he was giving him his cue to step in.

"Because, Milady," Isro said, joining them around the table, "According to what we've learned from the bandit I captured, the Rayles gang isn't a small group of bandits. We knew from the amount of havoc they've been wreaking across most of the Colovian Highlands that they weren't, but we didn't have a number previously."

Leta shot a glance to Captain Pinard.

"He's the one I told you about, Countess," Pinard said. "The one that went to Rayles by himself and warned us about what was coming."

Countess Leta's eyes grew wide. "Oh! I know you now. Your sister is the one that owns that apothecary, isn't she?" she asked. "The one that brewed those healing potions for me when little Coris was sick a few months ago?"

Isro nodded. "Yes, she didn't cause you any trouble, did she?"

Leta shook her head. "She's an odd woman, but she gave me no reason to doubt that she knew what she was doing," she said. "I seem to be indebted to both of you now."

"Think nothing of it, Countess," Isro said. "But back to the problem at hand, we…" Isro balled his fist and coughed into it.

"Something the matter?" Leta asked, shielding Coris' face with her hand and pulling back.

Isro shook his head. The squeeze of his lungs ached more than it had the last time, but he didn't know why. Ysa surely had figured something out by now. Why was he still feeling as if he'd be ill by nightfall?

"Just my allergies," Isro said, steadying his breath before another cough could ripple outwards. "I'll be fine."

"I've already told her about everything, Lieutenant," Captain Pinard said. "You don't need to worry about hiding it any longer."

Isro shot a glance at the Captain, then to Leta. "I apologize, Milady."

Leta's face softened. "What for?" she asked. "Some awful witch has placed a curse on Chorrol. Like the rest of us, you were only just an unfortunate recipient of the curse. Nothing more. Nothing less." Leta winked at Isro and the edges of her lips curled.

Isro felt some weight lift from his shoulders, but only slightly. Maybe the Vigilants would leave him and Suleh alone, but she'd said nothing about Ysa.

 _No, she wasn't intending on staying in Chorrol long anyway,_ he thought. _She could be halfway to the Imperial City before they arrive._

"As I was saying," Isro continued, sighing as he tried to mask his worry from them both, "We didn't have a number before, but according to the Bosmer I returned with, they have somewhere near one hundred men. Perhaps more."

"And how many guards do we have?" Leta asked.

Pinard shrugged. "We can muster up more than one hundred, but given that several are on leave after that accident on the wall last week, we're a bit fewer than normal."

"Well, do they have us outnumbered?" Leta asked pointedly.

Captain Pinard scratched his beard. "Unfortunately, I have no idea at the moment," he said.

"Then maybe we ought to ask some of the townspeople for help," Leta said. "Surely there are enough able-bodied men to make up the difference."

"A stellar idea, Milady," Pinard said. "The only problem is that while they may be strong, I have no way of determining whether or not they're capable fighters. If I had a few days, I could at least teach them how to hide behind their shields and maybe even nock an arrow properly. With only a few hours," Pinard shook his head. "I'd consider myself more than a match for no less than the Phantom of Bravil if I could get them to unsheathe a sword without losing a damned finger."

Coris let out a sharp cry. Leta whispered a lullaby to him until he was quiet again. "Then you must have another plan in mind, don't you?"

Captain Pinard looked over at Isro and gestured. "I thought we might ask the Lieutenant for his opinion first," he said.

Countess Leta looked over, then back to Pinard with a raised eyebrow.

Isro wanted to do the same. "Are you sure?" he asked so the Countess wouldn't have to. "Sir, you've been Captain since before I arrived in Chorrol with my sister. If anyone would be able to come up with a successful defense plan, it'd be you."

"That may be true," Pinard said with a dismissive gesture, "But you've already proven yourself to be the crafty sort of man that I value."

"How do you figure that?" Isro asked.

Captain Pinard stood up from the table and walked over to Isro. "How much more proof do you need, son?" he asked. "You went alone into the stronghold of the largest bandit gang in all of County Chorrol to investigate a hunch. Everyone else in the garrison was content to do little more than keep their chairs warm. I consider the fact that you did that and returned alive worthy of my trust, but the fact that you did it while also freeing another man from their dungeon without getting caught…" Captain Pinard tightened his grip on Isro's shoulder. "You're either a madman or blessed by the Divines. I'd have either by my side when I'm in a corner, to be frank."

Isro took a deep breath. If the Captain was convinced, he'd do his best to be, too. "Well, if we can't guarantee that we have the advantage based on numbers, maybe we should try another approach."

Captain Pinard's beard ruffled. "Go on," he said.

Isro took his place around the map table and pointed at the location of the gates. "While the front entrance is certainly an option, I can't imagine them charging us from there," he said. "Once those doors are shut, there's no opening them. Not without bringing an army. I think we can eliminate that possibility, but that still leaves the other directions unaccounted for."

"And since Fort Rayles is to the Northwest, they probably think we'll be watching that direction," Captain Pinard said, pointing at the Fort.

"Do you think they'll come around another way?" Isro asked.

Pinard nodded. "I do," he said. "Once again, that still leaves us with a few sections unaccounted for. We'll need to decide how we want to amass ourselves along the wall and how we expect to defend our position."

Isro ran his hands over his head. "How many crossbows do we have?"

"Not enough for everyone," Pinard said, "But we can make do with some longbows."

Isro leaned forward on his elbows. "One option is that we could divide ourselves evenly for each direction, but that'd leave us stretched thin," he said. "If the bandits approached from one side, we'd be overwhelmed by the time everybody can all gather."

Pinard stroked his beard. "We could send a couple of men out on horseback," he said. "Have them ride along the roads and into the woods to see if they can't spot them early. Then if they're coming from one direction, we'll know how where to set up a firing line. And if they're coming from multiple directions, we'll know which ones."

"But if that happens, we'll still be dividing ourselves," Isro said.

Pinard shrugged. "That's probably what they'd want to happen," he said. "A divide and conquer approach has been a cornerstone of strategists for a reason."

Isro stood up straight. "They're bandits, sir. Not tacticians."

"You'd be surprised, son," Pinard said. "A large portion of the people that desert the Imperial Legion fall in with bandit gangs. They're happy to have a group of people that won't sell them out to the authorities and even happier to lead. I'd wager that if there's one in the Rayles gang, he'll probably be the one calling the shots."

Isro slinked away. He didn't mind his inexperience showing, just not in front of the Countess when he was supposed to be vindicating his new rank. "So we're stuck," he muttered.

"It's part of the job," Captain Pinard said with a sigh. "It's never ideal, but you get used to it after a while. Sometimes, you just have to make it up as you go along and hope for the best."

Isro hunched over the table. "I guess we don't have many options, then," he said. "It's up to you, sir."

Captain Pinard placed his hands on the table and squinted heavily. His eyes traced over the map several times as if they were riding the roadways leading to the city. His fingers tapped on the table, punctuating his mumbles with a tinge of worry. After a bit of silence in the room, Captain Pinard opened his mouth to speak.

Curiously, Isro couldn't hear what he was saying.

A thunderclap shook the room. Isro grabbed the edge of the table to keep his balance until the ground was still. He ran to the window. His stomach sank as he looked outside.

A plume of fire and smoke lifted from the eastern side of the city. In the dawning sun, he could see the trees on the other side of the wall.

A handful of servants rushed Countess Leta out of the room. Captain Pinard walked up behind Isro and placed his hand on his shoulder.

"Looks like we're out of time, son," he said flatly. Pinard looked down at the rising smoke as war-cries and screams of terror filled the air and spat a foul line of curses.

Isro wrapped his fingers around his sword and sprinted out of the room.

How had they blown the wall away?

.~~~.

Ysadette's legs were on fire. Every step she took doubled the throbbing pain in her shins and radiated from the soles of her feet all the way up her back. She was running faster than a horse could sprint, but it was draining her in every possible way. She was by no means a master of her new spell, as she was finding out. Not like Ulpo, who had exerted it on them both with a sneeze and seemed unbothered by it. Even with the curse removed, she could feel her magicka trickling away at a rate she wasn't fond of.

Ysa knew what she was going to demand he teach her next. Destruction practice could wait.

Her lungs ached as she gasped for air. Her arms were covered in scrapes and welts from the tree limbs and bushes she'd blown through on her way back. She'd lost a shoe after it got stuck somewhere in the swamp and still she couldn't stop. She didn't dare.

She'd seen the footprints left in the mud, how they'd covered a large swath of the forest. They looked to be coming from the direction she guessed Fort Rayles was in, but they weren't going straight to Chorrol like the fog-trails of Clairvoyance did. They'd taken a strange route that she hoped meant they were only going on a group outing and one that wouldn't mean disaster for the city.

Rayles was to the Northwest of Chorrol. That much Ysa knew, so she used Clairvoyance to tether herself to the city. It most cases, it was only good for guiding her to places she knew or to things she had enough of an idea to find on her own. Ysa wasn't sure where the Fort was, but as long as she kept the fog-trails pointing in the proper direction and her eyes on the fading stars and constellations above, she knew she could figure it out. There couldn't possibly be that many abandoned forts in County Chorrol.

Ysa covered her face with her arms and crashed through some tall bushes and into the clearing where she skidded to a stop. A stone fortress loomed over her – it's gray keeps ominously quiet. It had to be Fort Rayles. She cast her vision spell to brighten the world around her and sprinted around the fort's perimeter.

No one else was there but her. Not a single bandit came out to meet her and none of them peeked out from the battlements.

Ysa stopped running and slumped over, trying to catch her breath before her lungs exploded in her chest. She couldn't even feel her heart beating anymore. It'd become a long, unbroken shudder.

If it was Rayles, they had to be on their way to Chorrol. Peryite truly had been warning her. Or taunting her. She couldn't keep her thoughts concentrated long enough to decide which one anymore.

Ysa put her fingers to her necklace and squeezed her eyes shut.

 _Stay calm. They need your help._

There wasn't time to waste. She activated her movement spell once more – focusing whatever leftover magicka that wasn't given to Clairvoyance – and sprinted along the fog-trail leading her back to Chorrol.

 _Please, let me make it in time!_

.~~~.

Isro ran down the winding staircases of Castle Chorrol. He shoved his way through the fleeing occupants as they all pushed deeper into the bowels of the keep. Captain Pinard ran along just behind him but stopped several times when he was forced to shout out orders to the few that were confused, separating them.

Isro had questioned the need for placing the city on lockdown before he came to the castle, but once again, he was finding himself trusting Captain Pinard's hunches. If only one of those hunches had given them time to prepare, he might not have been running in the first place.

When Isro hit the bottom floor of the castle and entered County Hall, his thoughts were overtaken.

He remembered the day he was brought before the then-living Count in that very room like the rest of the recruits. He was sixteen then, having only turned so a week before. He remembered the words of encouragement the man had spoken to them that day. He remembered watching as Suleh stood along the edge of the room – and how the relatives of the other recruits gave her a wide berth. Suleh had wasted no time in building a reputation for herself.

She wasn't fazed, though. Nothing ever bothered her. She smiled the entire time. From the moment she entered the Castle until the moment the ceremony was over, Suleh made sure that he knew she was there for him.

He remembered how she came to his side once it was over and wrapped her arms around him and what she said to him.

" _Mom and Dad would be proud."_

That was the day that he made an oath to their parents. It didn't matter to him that they weren't there to hear it.

No matter what it took, he'd keep her safe for them. She'd already spent so long doing the same to him.

At that, he felt his doubts beginning to shrivel up and die. He truly wasn't the same frightened boy he was back then. He didn't need to hide behind his big sister anymore. And it wasn't the Dominion that was coming to destroy their home as retribution for its defiance. It was nothing more than a rowdy group of cutthroats that needed to be taught one simple fact;

Threatening his home and the people he cares about is a mistake they won't be given the chance to recover from.

He didn't stop again. Isro ran out of the castle and into the city. The scent of the growing pyre filled his nostrils before he was out of the empty courtyard. By the time he reached the East wall, what seemed like every guard in Chorrol had gathered there. Bandits poured in from the gaping hole in the wall – some on horseback and others on foot and doing battle.

One on horseback spotted Isro and rode toward him – sword held in the air. Isro rolled onto the ground as the tip of their blade swished through the air behind him. They pulled back and came at him again.

Captain Pinard charged in from the left and swept the legs out from underneath the horse with his sword. Horse and rider fell to the ground, dazed. Pinard didn't waste a second in putting an end to both. "Come on, son!" he shouted at Isro. "Now isn't the time for lying around! We've got a city to defend!"

Isro followed Captain Pinard as they entered the fray. Clanging steel and shouting from both side didn't let Isro make sense of anything. He realized then that he'd never been in any more than a scuffle. He couldn't hope to keep his eyes on everything. Isro had to swing and hope that he hit the right person.

Isro spied a figure rushing at him out of the corner of his eye. He raised his shield just in time to catch the tremendous weight of a battle ax being dropped on him. His legs threatened to buckle underneath him when the next strike came. Isro didn't wait for the third. He rushed at the attacker and ran him down with his shield. He thrust his sword at them, but they slipped out of the way. The long handle of their ax slammed into his side and knocked Isro away.

Isro finally caught a glimpse of his attacker's face as they charge him again. The Nord from the Fort. The one he'd spied on.

Isro raised his shield again. The head of the ax reduced it to splinters. With a spin, Isro lobbed what was left of the shield at the man and caught him in the face. He lowered his sword and charged him next. The big Nord was ready. He kicked Isro away without any effort.

Isro grabbed his throbbing ribs and tried to stay upright. The Nord batted him from one side to the other before raising his ax again. Isro held up his sword, but the power behind the Nord's swing broke it in two.

The Nord laughed at him and batted him to the side again. He stomped his foot and swung the ax with all his weight put behind it. Isro ducked out of the way.

"This is pitiful!" the Nord shouted, his big voice carrying above the chaos. "If this the kind of person that makes for a guard now?"

Captain Pinard charged the man, running his sword right into the Nord's side. He howled and swatted Pinard away. The Nord ripped the sword out of himself and tossed it to the ground. He stomped his foot again and prepared to swing.

"Captain! Look out!" Isro shouted.

The ax came around with a terrifying force. The Captain didn't have time to raise his shield. Isro blinked just before the ax hit Pinard's neck. When next he opened them, his body was flat on the ground.

Isro lowered his head and gritted his teeth.

The big Nord set the ax on his shoulder and turned to Isro again. "Just pitiful," he said as he stomped over.

Something inside Isro snapped. He didn't look up. He grabbed the bloodied sword and charged the man. When the ax came around, he was ready. Isro ducked underneath it and rammed the sword into the bandit's ribs. The bandit roared and dropped his elbow on him, but Isro pushed harder and twisted it for good measure.

Pinard believed in him. He was _proud_ of him. And that bastard killed him.

Isro chased the man to the ground and held him there until he was dead. He lifted the sword again and wiped it clean. He reached down and took Pinard's abandoned shield.

 _He was proud._

Isro slashed the back of a bandit and kept running.

 _Of me._

Isro slammed the rim of his shield into another person, buying himself enough time to land a killing blow. He rushed towards one more. Something swept underneath his legs and sent him to the ground. Isro squeezed his eyes shut.

A blow in his ribs forced him to open his eyes again. Isro found that in the few seconds he'd been on the ground, a group of bandits had surrounded him. He tried to make a grab for his sword, but they kicked his arm away just before he could reach one. Instead, he grabbed a piece of stone and hurled at whoever it'd hit first.

Isro heard a curse and knew he'd hit someone. The rest of them didn't take kindly to his attack. A barrage of strikes rocked him. He barely had time to breathe before someone or something hit him again. Each strike was like being branded with an iron. Isro coughed onto the ground and saw red spreading on the stone path.

He reached out and caught one by the foot. Isro yanked him to the ground. He didn't bother to look at his face. He threw his fists down until he felt his knuckles hit skin. He'd take another one of them out if it was the last thing he'd do.

A shattering kick rolled him off the man before he could hit another time.

Then as if nothing had happened, they started beating on him again. After a while, their kicks began to lose their edge. Isro could still hear their jeers, but only barely. His throat felt full and his arms and legs grew heavy.

He couldn't move. Around him, the rest of the guards were fighting with all they had. And he was just lying there. He needed to get up. He couldn't break his promise so easily.

Isro didn't bother to shut his eyes when he saw a foot lifting above his head. Between the darkness around him and the blurriness of his vision, there wasn't much difference between the two.

 _I'm sorry, Captain,_ he thought, _Sis. I tried._

In the time it took Isro to take what he figured would be his last breath, the bandits surrounding him were covered in flames. He tried to move away from the sweltering heat before it could cook him as well.

A figure appeared above him and held him still. The coarse texture of their cloak brushed gently against his skin as they crouched over him.

He watched as they extended a glowing hand down to him and touched his chest. Their other hand was raised to the sky – a green glow enveloping them both. An arrow ran into their side and snapped in half.

Isro's wounds flared to life before the pain ebbed away. The longer they kept their hand on him, the clearer his vision became.

He figured he should've known that when he could see clearly again, it was her that would be standing over him.

She was covered in muck and grime so thick she looked like she'd crawled out of the grave to get there. Her hair was matted to her forehead by sweat, but still, she looked down at him with a frail hint of a smile almost as if she were relieved to be there when she was.

"I made it," Ysa said to herself, breathless. She clasped Isro's hand in hers and helped him to his feet.

He grabbed her head and pulled her low. A second later an arrow screamed through the air where she'd been standing.

Ysa was on her feet before he was. "This way!" she shouted as she ran from the chaos and disappeared into an alleyway. Isro glanced back at the battle, then back to where Ysadette had gone. He couldn't leave the rest of the guards behind, could he?

Isro took a deep breath and ran after Ysa. There wasn't time left to think. Not when a stray arrow was all that stood between him and an early visit to the Far Shores.

When he found her, Ysa was leaning against the wall, one hand clutching at her heart like she was worried it was trying to break out. Isro hadn't noticed until then how ghostly she looked or how ragged her breathing was. She lurched forward.

Isro didn't have time to think before he reached out and caught. "What's wrong?" he asked, sitting her back against the wall. "Did you find the witch?"

Ysa shut her eyes and nodded.

"And the curse?" he asked.

"Broken," she said between gasps. "It's done."

Isro breathed a sigh of relief and shook his head. "Then what's the matter with you?"

Ysa's face scrunched up and she gritted her teeth. "I ran all the way here."

Isro sat down next to her and tried not to laugh. "You can't be serious," he said. "Silverbank took us half a day to reach walking and you went the other way from the city with Glodon. Why on Nirn would you run all the way back?"

Ysa's face was halfway between a grimace and a grin. "We can talk about it later," she said, patting him on the knee. "Come on, help me back up."

Isro looked at her and scratched his chin. He didn't doubt that she had a spell for countless situations, but one that'd let her travel that far that fast? Even he didn't expect that. He shrugged and helped her to her feet. "Where are you going?" he asked. "The rest of the guards could use our help."

Ysa untied her muddy cloak and let it drop the ground as she limped away. "I know, and that's why I'm going to the apothecary," she said. "I've got a plan to turn the tides in our favor, but I'll be needing you and Suleh if I want it to work."

Isro shook his head. "I know how your plans go," he said. "And I know they draw a lot of attention to you. Is this plan of yours the same way?"

Ysa didn't respond.

"You know what that'll mean, don't you?" Isro asked. "The Thalmor are probably on their way already from your Mentor's show in the woods. They'll be coming even quicker if you cause too much of a stir." Isro gritted his teeth before he could add on the looming issue of the Vigil of Stendarr as well. Convincing the best chance the city had at surviving the raid to take care of herself may not have been a good idea, after all.

Ysadette looked over her shoulder and her frail smile dried up. "I don't think I have a choice anymore," she said. "I'm not going to let anything happen to you and Suleh. Or anyone else, for that matter." She reached up and closed her hand around the sapphire of her necklace. "Not when I can try to stop it."


	17. What the Fire Leaves Behind

17

.~~~.

Ysadette spied the apothecary at the end of the street, standing underneath the great tree in the center of Chorrol. She breathed sigh or relief. Smoke from the explosion and morning mists mingled in the air, obscuring the street and white bricks of the buildings. Between that, the fact that the last of her magicka had been depleted during her last sprint to the city, and the stabbing pain in her shin, Ysa was beginning to believe she was better off slinking into the shadows and waiting until the battle was over.

She stopped limping and leaned against the wall of a house. Her leg throbbed in tune with each pound in her chest and head. Ysadette gritted her teeth and massaged it, trying to will the tiniest drop of her magicka into what she was sure would be a fracture. If only she hadn't misjudged that leap and smashed into the rubble, she could've dragged herself to Suleh's apothecary instead of hobbled. She inhaled slowly, trying once more to find the energy for a healing spell, then exhaled.

Nothing. She was absolutely drained.

Ysadette pushed off the wall. Inky splotches rippled across her vision, blurring what they didn't blot out, and the pressure in her skull doubled as if it were ready to burst out on either side. She slumped against the wall and ran her fingers over the splitting, ringing pain coiled around her head.

Isro strode by her, hands on his hips and face pointed down at the ground. "Look, I know you just save my life. But that doesn't mean you have to make yourself miserable for my sake. Let me help you before you make this any worse."

Ysadette took her hands away from her head and whimpered. "I told you that I'm fine. "Let me catch my breath. And we'll go."

"I'm not dumb," Isro said confidently.

"I know you aren't," Ysa said, "I never said that you were."

Isro crossed his arms and his expression hardened. "Would you stop this?"

"I'm trying to help you. And everyone else," Ysadette said, pressing her hand against her head to keep it from feeling as if it would split down the middle. "What are you talking about, anyway?"

"I'm talking about this 'do everything yourself instead of letting people help you' attitude you've had since you got here," Isro said. "First it was trying to run off alone for your necklace, then it was snapping at Sis when she tried to talk to you, and now you're making yourself walk on a wounded leg. You aren't alone in the forest anymore, so stop acting like you are."

"I already told you that I'm going to need your help," Ysa said. "Suleh's, too. Just leave it alone, please."

Isro shook his head. "That isn't good enough. And you can pretend to be angry with me all you like. It isn't going to work. You won't scare me off."

Ysadette glared at him as she pushed herself off the wall. If she had the energy left for it, she assumed her blood would be boiling. "Is it really the proper time for this?"

"Maybe not," Isro said. "But I'm beginning to wonder if it ever will be. You said in your letter that you were going to stop in Chorrol for a few days of rest. It was going to be your last time stopping until you reached the Imperial City, then you'd leave for Skyrim after you're done there."

"Your point?"

He sighed. "You haven't done that. You've been going non-stop. I didn't you expect you to drop everything and chat with Sis the entire time you're here, but I thought you'd stop for at least a minute before getting yourself into trouble."

Ysadette rolled her eyes. "Are you expecting me to stand down and watch as the city is torn apart?"

Isro ran his head over his head and grumbled something under his breath. "That's not what I'm saying. I just…" he trailed off. "I don't know what's going on with you. And you haven't made it easy to figure it out, either."

Ysadette lowered her chin so she didn't have to meet his eyes. Was it that obvious, even to him? "I just haven't had the luxury of stopping so far," she said. "As soon as we get this situation under control, I'll take a day to rest before leaving. I promise."

"Will you?" Isro asked. "Or will you find another way to keep going?"

"Just let me do this," Ysadette said as she took another step, the searing pain in her shin making her yelp, "Please."

"You don't have to prove anything to us," he said, his eyes zeroing in on her necklace and his expression softening, "Or anyone else."

Ysadette chewed on her tongue and did her best not to curse in his face – the vile kind that she did her best to bottle up in the pit of her stomach and not speak under any circumstances. She knew she didn't need to prove anything to them. She wasn't trying to. Did he not understand that she didn't simply want to protect them?

It was more than that. It was a primal need that she couldn't survive being neglected again. If she didn't have it – if she couldn't have it – if she failed all over again…

Isro grabbed her arm and put it over his shoulder, mumbling something to himself.

"I said no!" Ysa shouted, "And I told you to never grab me like that! Were you not listening to me?"

Isro's jaw formed a hard line and he frowned. "I heard you," he said. "But I'd like to get to Sis's apothecary before the bandits burn the city to the ground. They might be occupied right now, but they'll start fanning out before long. I'd rather not be carrying you and trying to fight off a rider at the same time. I've already had my ass kicked once today."

Ysadette tried to tear her arm free again, but Isro must've expected that. His gloved hands tightly held her wrist and his legs moved too quickly for her to get any solid footing before he took another step. He didn't even give her enough freedom to dig her heels into the ground as they walked.

Ysa dug her teeth into her lip until it bled. If she'd let him, he'd walk for her. He was _trying_ to, anyway, and that made Ysadette want to take those curses she almost spoke at him and shout them at herself. His poorly hidden smirk – self-satisfying in a way that told her that he knew exactly what he was doing – pulled her halfway between anger and shame.

Isro was right. Smug, but right. She wasn't alone in the wilderness anymore. All she was doing was squandering the time she had left before she'd be forced to return to it once again. He hadn't done anything wrong. Neither had Suleh.

"Fine," Ysa said as she stopped trying to wriggle her arm out of his grasp, "I suppose I don't have time to bicker with you right now, anyway."

Isro kept his mouth closed in a smirk, but he worked his jaw back and forth like a tooth had come loose and was jingling around inside. When they reached the apothecary, he let her go long enough that she could limp to the front door.

"Suleh!" Ysadette shouted, pounding her fist on the door. "It's me! Open the door!"

No response. Ysa went to knock again when the window opened.

Ulpo stuck his head out, his smile radiant as he looked at her. "D'oh!" he exclaimed, sticking one leg up and out in front of him in a display of flexibility that made Ysa hurt for him. "Hello, girl! Did you find the pigs while you were out? Oh! Or my comfy slippers?"

A pair of hands grabbed Ulpo by the cheeks, pulling his mouth back until his teeth were showing, and yanked him back into the window. They reached up to shut the window again, but Isro was there to stop it.

He leaned down and folded his arms on the windowsill. "Would you stop that?" he said. "This is serious."

Suleh popped her head out next, smiling just as wide. "I guess it really was you two heading this way!" she said, giggling. "Thought my eyes were playing tricks on me again. Anyhoo, come on around. I'll unlock the door." She moved back from the window in a manner that it appeared the building had sucked her back inside. A moment later, Suleh strutted out of the front door before being pushed back inside by Isro entering.

Ysadette followed them both, shutting the door behind her and locking it once again. The aroma of the veritable garden Suleh cultivated inside was thick. Splatters of varying colors dripped from the ceiling, coating the walls and floors. If she didn't know the mess Suleh routinely made while working, she would've guessed it were Ulpo's fault.

Suleh sashayed behind the counter and leaned on it, holding her chin in her hands. "What's brought you two back so soon?" she asked. "Isn't there a battle going on outside?"

"Ysa says she has a plan," Isro said.

"And I'm going to need some potions for it to work," Ysadette added. "First, I need you to bring me something so I don't faint right here."

Suleh nodded and dropped down behind the counter. "So, did you fix the curse?" she asked, her voice contesting with the clanking glass bottles.

"Yes, but I'll give you all the details later," Ysadette said as Suleh popped up again with a pair of green vials in her hands.

"This ought to get you back in shape," Suleh said, walking around the counter. Her nose crinkled and she stumbled back. "By Satakal! Is that you that I smell?"

Ysadette snatched the vials from her hands and drank one after the other. "I trudged through a swamp for hours to find the witch's house," she said. "Of course it's me. What did you expect?"

Suleh grabbed a basket of sweet-scented flower petals from the counter and threw handfuls of them at Ysa. "I'm not sure, but you aren't staying here for long smelling like that!"

Ysadette held up her arm and shielded her face from the petal shower. "I don't intend to. Where do you keep your magicka potions?"

Suleh threw another handful before bounding around the counter again and opening a cabinet. Inside were several blue bottles – about the same size as ones meant for mead – arranged in single-file lines. "I've got some that'll temporarily give you more magicka and some that'll let you rebuild it faster, all freshly brewed by yours truly. Which kind do you prefer?"

"Both," Ysa said.

Suleh looked over her shoulder, her brow lowered. "Uh, I think you're forgetting something. Mixing potions isn't usually a good idea, especially ones that enhance something about you. It's far from a good idea, actually. Too many of them and your blood will turn toxic. And the smaller you are, the easier that happens."

Ysa nodded. "I know that, but if you'd just…"

"Oh!" Suleh exclaimed, "I remember this one time when I was a little girl, I watched a big, fat man back home in Hammerfell drink a bunch of 'em! Before he started vomiting everywhere, his skin turned…"

"Now isn't the time for lectures," Ysa snapped. "Just give me a few of both and something to carry them in."

Suleh turned her nose up and set the bottles on the counter, rushing off into the other room. She returned with a belt slung over her shoulder. "I use this myself whenever I need to carry more than I can fit in my satchel," she said, poking her fingers through the loops on it and wiggling them around. "You might need to adjust it, though. Might be a tad big."

Ysa took the belt and fastened it around her waist, then hooked the bottles to it. "Do you have anything for healing wounds, too?"

Isro's brow furrowed. "Can't you handle that?"

"In any other situation, I wouldn't hesitate to do it myself," Ysa said, "But I'm going to need to conserve as much magicka as I can. I'd prefer to have some potions in case something happens to either of us."

Suleh returned with more bottles, this time crimson, and placed them on the counter.

Isro looked at the potions and sighed. "Would you mind telling me what you're up to?" he asked, collecting a few for himself and passing the rest to Ysadette.

She took one of the healing potions and sipped just enough to stave off the pain in her shin, then corked it and hooked it on her belt. "Let's just go to the garrison and not waste any more time talking about it. I can't imagine the rest of the guards are having an easy time." She opened the door to leave, but Ulpo huddled next to her and hooked his arm in hers.

"D'oh, are we leaving now?" he asked, shuffling his feet on the floor but not moving forward.

Ysa placed her hand on his bony forearm. "I'm sorry, Grandfather. I need to leave you one more time. I'll be back soon. I promise."

Ulpo, for one of the only times she knew of, stopped smiling completely. It wasn't the burning scowl of the other "him" that made her skin crawl simply imagining, but the absence of his smile was enough to give her chills. He unhooked his arm and clasped his hands behind his back. "D'oh. Yes," he said, shuffling away from the door and back into the apothecary. "But don't be gone too long! You've fallen behind on your lessons! I wouldn't want you getting to be a lazy girl. D'oh, no."

Ysa watched as he scrambled underneath the table and curled up into a tight little ball – just like always. Normally, she didn't think anything of it, but Peryite's words had taken root. She found herself questioning who exactly it was that seemed disappointed at her departure; Her Grandfather and Mentor? Or the other Ulpo buried inside him, perhaps peeking his head out for a fleeting moment?

"Something the matter?" Isro asked, the impatience in his voice bearing down on her.

Ysa shook her head and stepped out into the street. "No. It's nothing. Let's be on our way."

As the door shut behind her, Ysa stole one more glance at Ulpo. What "truth" was Peryite warning her about? What about it could make even Ulpo afraid? Ysa patted herself on the cheeks and tried to keep herself from getting distracted as they walked.

 _Save the city now. Get your answers later._

.~~~.

The door to Chorrol's garrison opened with a groan as Isro stepped inside, looking around with severely squinted eyes. When the door shut behind Ysadette as she entered, surrounding him with silence, Isro's stomach sank deep.

Something wasn't right.

Only two other people should've been in the garrison and he expected it to be quiet. What bothered him is that neither were anywhere to be found.

He traced his eyes over the sword and shield racks – mostly robbed of their weaponry by the other guards in their rush save for a few iron longswords – hanging from the walls. He picked one and gripped it by the sheath, fastening it around his waist.

Ysadette's eyes darted back and forth and she raised an eyebrow at him. "Something the matter?" she asked, her voice a soft whisper nearly drowned out by the booming of the city outside.

Isro nodded. "Luven's supposed to be here keeping an eye on Thaum. Captain Pinard told him not to join the battle under any circumstances. Not even if he's the last one in town left alive. I don't see him, though."

Ysa slipped around in front of him, one arm folded in front of her with the other putting a hand underneath her chin. She stuck her fingers out straight, tiny lights flickering on their tips, and blinked a few times.

"What're you doing?" Isro asked.

Ysadette balled her fist and rubbed her eye. "Magic," she said. "I might not have mentioned it, but I've been using a spell to detect signs of life around me whenever we're in the woods. I can see nearly any living being nearby. Animals, people…"

She trailed off and gestured to the left. "Ugh, even the colony of ants crawling on underneath the table across the room. It's not like having a pair of eyes stuck to the corner, though. All I see are glowing silhouettes. Still, it's rather useful. If I were a master of using it, I'd keep it active at all times."

Isro waved his hand in front of her face.

Ysa smiled sarcastically and pushed his chest. "My normal vision may be poor, but I even I can see that without a spell," she said. "Glodon and the others wouldn't have been able to sneak up on me if I hadn't been out of magicka at the time. I would've noticed them long before they noticed me."

"Then look around," Isro said. "See if we're actually alone in here."

Ysadette paced around the room, her eyes scanning over the room as if she wanted to memorize the entire place. "Well, I think you've got a rodent infestation somewhere in the lower floor."

"I'll let Sis know later," Isro said. "She can make something to lure them out. Anything else?"

Ysa nodded. "I think there's a person down there, as well. Coming this way. Looks like a man. Thin. A little bit on the diminutive side."

Isro drew his sword and started across the room. "Could be either one. There ought to be two, at least. Are you sure?"

"I am," she whispered. "Watch your step. He'll be coming around the corner in a few moments."

Isro stopped and pressed himself against the corner of the hallway leading to the stairs. He watched Ysadette's raised hand as she counted down. Casually taken steps – completely lacking in any sort of hurry – grew closer as she retracted her fingers. Isro balled his fists around the hilt of his longsword.

Ysa curled her last finger in and nodded.

Isro rushed around the corner at the man and slammed him against the wall, pressing the edge of his sword against their neck.

He wanted it to be Luven, dammit.

"Where is he?" Isro growled, pushing as hard as he could without breaking Thaum's skin.

Thaum shook his head and croaked a pathetic laugh. "That boy you left here? He ran off screaming the second everybody else was gone."

"And you took that as an invitation to leave?" Isro asked.

Thaum shrugged. "I took that as an invitation to save myself from this rat-infested hole in the ground you people left me to die in. Have you seen the size of those things, by the way? They look as if they could chew my ankles off in less than a minute. I'll have no part in that."

Ysadette came around from the side and put her hand on Isro's shoulder, tugging him away.

Thaum sneered at her as he rubbed his neck. "You again?" he asked as if she were a minor inconvenience. His eyes flicked down before rolling in their sockets. "So that's it, eh? Come to get your revenge, have you? First Glodon and now me? I don't know if that sort of thing makes you feel any better but seeing as you've already killed him and got your necklace back, I think you'll be wasting your time."

Ysa closed her hand on her necklace and tugged at it. "I didn't kill him," she said. "Unless a good slapping can kill a man. We made a deal; I found the witch and made her remove the curse and he returned my necklace as payment."

Thaum laughed hollowly. "I was wondering why that potion worked," he said, bowing his head slightly at her. "Thank you for that much then. Now, if you'll step out of the way, I'll be taking my leave. I'm not in the mood for facing both parties that imprisoned me in the same hour." Thaum nudged Ysadette aside and walked across the entry room of the garrison.

Isro set his sword back in its sheath and stormed after him. "You aren't going anywhere," he said, stopping in front of Thaum. "You're going to help us."

"Why would I do that?" Thaum asked. "The only things that matter in this city to me are what I'm getting when they're done outside."

Ysadette stood beside Isro, her arms crossed and stance wide. "You'll help us because Glodon told me about you," she said. "Because you're the one who handled the scheming in that little band of misfits you called a gang."

Thaum looked at Isro, then to Ysa again and laughed. His eyes burned with a suppressed anger. "Damned loose-lips on him. Tell you anything else he shouldn't have?"

Ysa nodded. "That you were aware of what was going to happen. Which I'm thinking means you knew exactly how they were going to destroy the wall."

Hot anger bubbled up in Isro's face. "And you didn't tell us? We could've prepared for it!"

Thaum looked offended at the idea. "Don't you know anything about bargaining? Secrets are just as valid as material goods in prison. Why offer everything you have up front when you can keep something for yourself? Or maybe you're all just that bad at interrogating your captives."

Isro grabbed Thaum by the throat, making him gag, and slammed him down on one of the tables. "Captain Pinard died because of you!" he shouted, punching Thaum in the jaw. "Give me a reason I shouldn't kill you right now!"

Thaum gritted his teeth and tried to pry Isro's fingers from around his neck. "Something tells me it doesn't matter what reasons I give anymore," he choked out, "But I guess you won't gain much from killing me, either. That good enough for you?"

Isro lifted him up to his face. "It'd be easy."

Thaum raised his eyebrows, his face turning red. "Would it? Don't think for a second that I can't hear that crack in your voice. You may act tough, but I've seen people like you before. You strut around like you're in charge, like you're some brave warrior here to protect everyone, but you're just a boy playing soldier."

Isro punched him in the nose, slamming Thaum's head against the table. Thaum dabbed his finger on his lip and squinted at the dribble of blood left on it.

"It doesn't matter whether I'm afraid or not," Isro said, loosening his grip. "As long as the people I care about are safe. That's all that matters."

Thaum rolled his eyes. "Let me tell you something; conviction doesn't keep arrows out of your head. It doesn't keep swords out of your gut, either. It just fools you into thinking that being killed by either makes you a hero. Like you, I used to think it did."

"Does it keep you from getting choked to death on a table?" Isro asked, pulling him up and glaring into his eyes. If there was any fear in the Bosmer, he wanted to see it.

Thaum shook his head and sighed. "I guess it doesn't. But, it's earned you something from me. If you want to hear what it is, you'll be taking your filthy hands off me. Now."

Isro tossed him on the table and stepped back. "Start talking."

Thaum sat up, rubbing the back of his head and wincing. He put his fist over his mouth and cleared his throat in an exaggerated manner and crossed one leg over the other. "Oil barrels," he said, not bothering to explain further.

Isro tried to keep his mouth from dropping open. "Are you serious? That's it? That's all you have to say?"

Thaum shrugged. "That was all it took to bring your walls down. That and a few little sparks."

Ysa put her hand on the table and leaned on it, glancing at Isro. "Didn't you mention something about oil barrels to me before?"

Isro dragged his hands over his face and groaned a few curses. "The missing caravan," he said. "I remember. We spent weeks looking for them but we always came up empty-handed."

"Are you saying the Rayles gang stole them?" Ysa asked Thaum.

"No, we did that," Thaum said. "Wasn't hard considering you people can't even spare one good man to keep them safe. Anyway, I showed those brutes over at Rayles how to turn them into explosives with a few small additions. I planned on using them as a bit of insurance in case they tried to force us into their group. They aren't the smartest men in Tamriel, but even they could see I had the upper hand." Thaum rubbed the red marks on his wrists left behind by iron cuffs. "Should've guessed they'd be itching for revenge."

Ysadette held her chin. "That's rather resourceful. But, I don't believe you've given us a reason to trust you."

Thaum tugged at his shirt collar and exposed the symbol tattooed on his chest – a serpentine dragon surrounded by its wings. "Imperial Legion," he said before either of them could. "Got out of the damned thing a decade ago. I wasn't about to die in one of their pointless battles trying to keep this dying Empire in one piece. Wasn't worth it." He covered up the symbol again. "To answer your question, it was a trick we used once. Got us into a fort west of Leyawiin when it was taken over by a band of mercenaries. Illegally, I might add. Sturdy old place the Legion once used to keep an eye on the border between Cyrodiil and Elsweyr. I figured the walls here couldn't have been much different."

Isro stepped back from the table. "Captain Pinard was right, then," he said. "He guessed that whoever was calling the shots would be a deserter. You're a deserter."

Thaum nodded. "Or so I've been told," he said. "I prefer to think of it as being one of the precious few that knows when to jump ship before the whole thing goes down and takes you with it."

Isro squeezed the hilt of his longsword. "Didn't they teach you loyalty in the Legion?"

"Are you naïve or just dumb?" Thaum asked, chuckling. "Loyalty doesn't mean much to the Empire anymore. Not when the only thing keeping the Dominion from marching across Cyrodiil and turning it into a damned graveyard is a piece of paper that should've been rammed up their haughty asses instead of signed. If you want to see where loyalty gets you, try finding a single living Blades agent anywhere in Tamriel. You won't."

"So it's all for one?" Ysa said. "You'd rather break your oath to the people you were sworn to protect because you're afraid?"

Thaum's indifferent demeanor didn't falter. "Not afraid, miss," he said, pushing himself to his feet. "Tired. I don't know much about you or where you're from, but I've seen the true face of the Dominion and it isn't a kind one. They don't have the same restraint the Empire does, don't care if it's a soldier or just a man. According to the Thalmor, everyone that isn't a High Elf only exists to be dominated. The Empire's just a stepping stone on their way to glory and I won't be there when their foot comes down the next time."

That was all Isro needed to hear. He walked across the room and grabbed a sword from the wall. "Here," he said, tossing it to Thaum.

Thaum caught it pushed on the handle with his thumb, looking at Isro with narrowed eyes. "Er, thanks. I already told you that I'm not helping you, though."

Isro unsheathed his sword and held it out. "I know. I'm not asking you to. I'm doing what my duty asks for."

Thaum started walking in a wide circle. "I take that means you intend to kill me, doesn't it?" he asked. "Bring this deserter to justice?"

Isro followed his movements, circling around opposite of him. "That's right," he said.

Ysadette stood in the middle of the circle, her arms spread wide. "Isro, we don't have time for this. Our priority right now is saving the city."

Isro twisted his hands around the hilt. "Captain Pinard wouldn't let him go."

Thaum could've made a break for the door, yet he continued to pace. "You shouldn't try to fill his shoes," he said. "You never will. Listen to your friend. If you really care about protecting the city, you'll put that sword away before it gets you hurt."

Ysa whipped her head back and forth, looking at them.

"You sound afraid," Isro fired back.

Thaum shrugged. "Not of you. Her. I've already seen firsthand what happens when she's in danger. I'm not interested in having that old Dunmer of hers hunting me down for the rest of my life. I've already got the Empire doing that."

"Just let him leave," Ysadette said, stepping toward Isro. "We made a deal with Glodon, remember? We told him that we'd find Thaum and make sure he was safe." She slowly passed around the tip of his sword.

Isro didn't know how many had died that day. Too many, he was sure, and all of their blood was on Thaum's hands. It wasn't just about the Captain anymore – it couldn't be. It was about more and he imagined that letting Thaum go would feel a bit like marching outside, finding their corpses, dragging them to safety, and finally spitting on each until his mouth was dry.

Ysadette put her hand over his and pushed it down, lowering the sword. "Glodon held up his end of the deal," she said in a pillow-soft voice, sapping away his tension. "I know it seems wrong, but it's only fair that we hold up our end as well."

Isro's shoulders eased themselves as if they agreed with her, whether the rest of him did or not. It would take less than a minute to pin Thaum – less than that to deal the killing blow. He wanted to make him pay, to see justice served for his part in Pinard's death.

His body wouldn't move, though. His feet locked themselves down like they'd been fused to the floor. Isro looked at Ysadette's hands, catching what he thought was a sparkle of green tucked underneath her palms, and sighed. "Captain Pinard told us all that a man was only as good as his word."

She nodded. "And we should do our best to keep ours. Otherwise, what sets us apart from him?"

"I suppose nothing," Isro said, exhaling. He looked past Ysadette and toward Thaum. "But I want to make myself clear; if I ever see you in County Chorrol again, I won't hesitate."

Thaum smirked and sheathed his sword. With one hand placed on the door, Thaum glanced back over his shoulder. "I wouldn't dream of asking you to," he said, vanishing into the light and escaping with hardly a scratch. A few bruises maybe, but Isro found that wasn't enough to satisfy his bloodlust.

He let out a frustrated groan. Wherever the Captain was now, he could only hope the man would be able to forgive him for sullying his memory. "I hope I didn't just make a huge mistake," Isro said to Ysadette, walking towards the stairs across the room.

Ysadette kept her arms crossed as she followed him, silent.

"You didn't just use Illusion magic on me, did you?" Isro asked.

She shook her head and looked at the wall. "I'm not good at that, I'm afraid," Ysa said. "I only know a few spells and none of them involve calming another. If I did, I would've tried to use it against the bandits."

Isro nearly laughed. He'd never heard something so unconvincing in his life. "I won't ask for your reasons," he said, "But as long as you don't use it on me again, I'll let this one slide."

"And I suppose I'll let those two times you dragged me around by my arms slide as well," she said. "But enough of that. We've wasted too much time."

.~~~.

Isro tugged at the arrow quivers hanging from his shoulders as they left the garrison, already worried about to why Ysadette needed so damned many of the things. At her request, Isro had scrounged up every loose arrow in every barrel in the garrison and stuffed as many as he could into the quivers. He didn't ask her why, but he couldn't help but be curious.

Ysa wasn't an archer and hadn't expressed any interest in becoming one. If memory served him correctly, the last time she tried pulling a drawstring, she ended up with a welt across her cheek. He, on the other hand, learned a few new curses straight from the countryside of High Rock.

He didn't even want to ask why she'd insisted on all of the arrows being doused in oil. Whatever it was she was planning, Isro hoped it wasn't going to equal the disaster he had in his head, the one where Chorrol was engulfed with flames because of her.

Isro balled his fist and coughed into it. "By the way," he said, rubbing his chest to alleviate the stinging, "If you've fixed the curse, why am I still sick and you aren't?"

"Oh, that's simple," Ysa said, walking hunched over from the weight of the arrows on her back. "Peryite told me that everyone who wasn't at the witch's house with us will still need to drink a potion to remove the symptoms. I don't think the disease will progress any further, however."

Isro pinched the bridge of his nose between his finger and thumb. "Please tell me you didn't just say the name of a Daedric Prince," he said. "And I thought you went to meet with a witch!"

"I did," Ysa said. "Unfortunately, I didn't make much progress with her. She was feeling rather playful and definitely wasn't in the mood for making any deals with me. I wasn't keen on seeing him again, but it was a turn of good luck if you can believe it."

"I don't," he said, coughing until his throat cleared. "And what do you mean, 'seeing him again?'"

Ysa patted him on the back and wobble-walked away. "Another time," she said.

Isro followed her to the stairs leading up the west wall. As they crossed the battlements, he peered over the city at the ongoing battle. It was too far – too covered by rising smoke – for him to tell which side was winning. For what it was worth, he wished them all good luck until Ysa brought it to an end.

Ysadette led the way towards the guard tower at the corner of the west wall and stopped at the door leading inside. She yanked on the handle, but it didn't give. "Is this supposed to be locked?" she asked, looking back at Isro.

"It shouldn't be," Isro said and looked at the top of the tower. "Anybody up there?"

A face peeked over the edge – a young man wearing the Chorrol guard's open helmet – then moved away.

"Luven?" Isro shouted. "Is that you up there? Let us in!"

Luven came back to the edge and shook his head. "No way!" he said. "I-I'm not going to die today!"

"That's why I'm here!" Ysa shouted, cupping her hands around her mouth. "To prevent that from happening to you or anyone else! Now open the door! We don't have time to waste!"

Luven gripped the side of the tower. "And what are you going to do?" he asked. "Huh? Come up here and sunbathe while the city gets destroyed?"

Isro winced. Luven didn't seem to know who he was dealing with.

Ysa raised her hand and curled her fingers.

Luven skidded back from the ledge, screaming curses so loud the battle almost seemed quiet. "Fine! Fine! Stop it!" he shouted as he came back into view, holding on to the wall for dear life. "Just stop doing whatever it is you're doing to me!"

Isro leaned over. "What _are_ you doing?" he asked as Luven disappeared again.

"Only giving that sword he's carrying a little tug," Ysa said nonchalantly. "I intended on dragging him down the stairs, but I suppose having him do it of his own volition works just as well."

Luven opened the door a few moments later, looking sheepishly at his feet. He didn't say anything, but Isro noticed that he was avoiding looking at him most of all as he followed Ysa into the tower. He put his hand on Luven's shoulder and sighed. "I'm not going to chew you out," he said. "This is the first time you've been caught in a raid. You were scared. Don't beat yourself up over it. I've done the same thing before."

Luven didn't move. "Am I going to be in trouble?" he asked quietly.

Ysadette stopped and looked back at him from the stairs. "Come on," she said and continued to climb. "You can mentor him later."

Isro took his hand off Luven and followed Ysadette up the tower.

Ysadette dropped the quiver she was carrying when they reached the top of the tower and walked over towards the ledge. She shut her eyes, waved her hand over her face, then opened them again. "I can see all of them from here," she said, tracing her eyes along the town. "Clairvoyance is working, too. That's good. It's usually meant for finding my way back to locations I've been to before, so it doesn't work quite as well for finding people unless I have something like a magic signature to work from."

"So what happens now?" Isro asked, dropped the arrow quivers on the ground.

Ysa unhooked a potion from the belt and started drinking it. When it was empty, she took another and drank that one, too. She pushed one hand against her stomach as she moved to the third and moaned quietly. "I'm going to do my best to not vomit all over the place," she said, shivering and puckering her lips. "Can't Suleh make some potions that aren't so disgusting?"

When Ysa reached for the fourth potion, Isro grabbed her wrist before she could gulp it down. "Isn't that enough?" he asked, looking at the veins underneath her skin as they illuminated themselves and turned as blue as the sky. "These things are the size of an ale bottle and Sis said…"

Ysa yanked her arm away and returned the bottle to her lips. "I know what she said," she muttered. She squeezed her eyes shut as she drank, her face pinched in discomfort. As the last drops of the fourth bottle disappeared into her mouth, Ysa dropped it and wrapped both arms around her stomach, heaving at the ground.

Isro stepped back as her entire body started glowing blue – her veins pulsating and bulging out.

"But as I told you earlier," she said through gritted teeth. Ysa opened her eyes and swiped her hand across her cheek, catching the tears dribbling down her face. "I need to do this."

Isro stepped back. He could feel her magicka overflowing, radiating out from her. Goosebumps rippled across his skin and a chill ran up his spine.

As much as he wanted to stop her, he knew he couldn't. Isro dashed towards the stairs, down the inside of the tower where he grabbed Luven and ran out onto the wall. He looked back at the top to see an arrow leap over the side and circle the top of the tower.

Another chased it. Then another, and several more.

Luven shielded his eyes and looked up at the arrows. "What's she up to, sir?" he asked.

A crowd of arrows joined the loop, circling like birds of prey adding more to their flock with each passing second, engulfing the top of the guard tower in a maelstrom. They swirled faster and faster until the screeching wind from the vortex blew along the wall.

"She must be planning to shoot them at the bandits," Isro said, scratching at his chin. "But why did she need them dipped in…"

By Satakal, that was too far. She _did_ know that, didn't she?

Isro grabbed Luven by the shoulder and forced him to run, looking back as a spark leaped from the middle of the tower and into the arrow storm.

The vortex erupted, surrounding the tower with a searing ring of fire, growing faster, hotter, and spewing tiny flames where they had been standing. The sweltering heat crashed into Isro's face as he held his arm up to shield his eyes from the light. A flaming arrow shot out from the ring and sailed over the town. Isro ran to the edge of the wall and watched it careen towards a bandit rider and sink itself into his chest.

Luven shouted and leaped into the air, fist thrust skyward. "Take that, you bastard!" he cheered.

Isro turned around and looked back at the ring of fire. He didn't imagine them swirling faster, but they did – accelerating to a speed that he couldn't see them individually anymore. "I think she was just testing her accuracy," he said.

Luven stopped jumping and glanced at him with a quizzical expression. "What makes you say that?"

Isro pointed at the ring of fire as it fanned out. "That."

Flocks of arrows shot out with each round of the loop, trails of smoke dogging their paths as they sailed over the city. Isro gulped, hoping they were as accurate as her first. As if to answer his questioning, she doubled her firing rate, blanketing the sky with a roaring arch of fire. Ysa didn't miss a shot. Even the bandit riders rampaging in the streets weren't safe from her wrath. Arrows fired down at them, too, throwing them from their horses and covering them in flames before the next arrow ran them through.

 _That was her plan,_ Isro thought. _She never intended on fighting them up close. She wanted to tear them to shreds from above. They'd never see it coming that way – never be able to defend themselves._

"Who in Oblivion did you bring with you, sir?" Luven asked, face beaming with wonder. "Is she from the Castle? Come on, tell me!"

Isro nodded, but he wasn't paying much attention. He couldn't tear his eyes away from the arrow storm, not even for a second. No wonder she'd downed so many potions. If he was correct, Ysadette was using four different spells at once, combining them to a devastating effect. There was no way she wasn't burning through her magicka.

Isro had seen how she wielded her spells as they crossed Hammerfell together. She'd left him in awe then but he assumed it was because he was only thirteen at the time and everything seemed incredible. Having a decade behind him since then – a decade she clearly used to hone her skills – he found that feeling hadn't changed a bit.

At last, Ysa was down to her final arrow. It launched high, climbing into the sky until it wasn't visible, before careening down again. Isro tried to keep his eyes on it until it. The arrow whistled by him, landing below the wall with a pained shout.

Isro peered over the edge and saw a bandit on the ground. He found himself blowing out a pitied laugh for the man. "Show-off," he said.

With the arrow storm gone, the sounds of the battle taking place across town, at last, fell to near silence. Isro could hear the ringing in his own ears above the distant murmurs of guardsmen wondering aloud what act of the Divines just saved them from an untimely end.

Isro loosened the breath that had been uncomfortably trapped in his lungs the moment the wall was blasted apart.

The madwoman actually did it.

Ysadette stumbled out from the base of the tower a few moments later, a faint glow around her as she held herself up on the doorframe. Her clothes were coated in layers of grime before, but now her sleeves had burned away from her wrist up to her elbow, leaving a tattered, blackened end. She paused for a moment and put her hand over her mouth, then shook her head as she staggered to the edge of the wall and faced the forest. As she stood there, the wind blowing against her and fanning the smoke from her smoldering clothes, she shut her eyes and moved her lips as if speaking to the trees.

"Enwreathed in flickering fires," Luven said, his voice lacking the fear it once had as he stood next to Isro. His expression was filled with amazement, his gaze not wavering from Ysa as she put her hand around her necklace and tilted her head back. "She's just like in the story."

As a final declaration of her victory, Ysadette, the Lady-In-Flames, held her hair back with one hand and leaned over the ledge to spew a blue flood from her mouth.

"Except for that part," Luven said, grimacing as she repeated the action two more times. "I don't remember that part. She'll be fine, won't she?"

Having emptied her stomach, Ysadette wearily sat down and put her the back of her head against the wall.

Isro pushed Luven towards the stairs. "Why don't you go and see how everyone else is doing down there?" he said. "You can play your part as her adoring fan later."

Luven started to object, but Isro put his hand up and shook his head. "Do this for me and I'll pretend that you didn't leave Thaum alone long enough for him to escape," he said. "Now, get out of here."

Luven pouted, saying something unintelligible as he descended the wall and returned the streets.

Isro waited until Luven was gone to join her on the wall. As he sat down, the muscles in his body unleashed their pent-up stress, turning his legs to noodles and his arms heavy as lead blocks. It was a good thing he'd chosen a comfortable sitting position. Isro was sure he wouldn't be getting back up for a while. He did his best to smile at Ysadette despite feeling like he was about to pass out.

Ysa hunched over and hid her face between her knees instead of meeting him with a smile of her own. It was a soft sound, her whimpering. He'd heard it the first night she stayed, only he didn't recognize it then.

The guardsmen at the east wall lifted their voices in a rapturous victory cry and Isro waited for her to stand up to bask in the victory with them. He put his arm around Ysa, expecting her to fight him off or snap at him as she did earlier – as she did with Suleh.

She didn't. Ysadette uncovered her face long enough to hide it again with his shoulder. She shivered, her fingers clenching at his back as she cried on him.

Isro was a fool, he figured. After giving her an earful for pushing everyone away, he got what he wanted. Only, he hadn't any idea what to do next.

So, he did nothing. He couldn't muck things up if he kept his dumb mouth shut, couldn't dig himself a deeper hole than he already had.

As he let her cry, Isro remembered the story that cropped up after the great fire in County Kvatch – the one Luven had quoted.

" _There be a woman, enwreathed in flickering flames and sorrow,"_ one of the guardsmen said at the tavern one night, halfway to a drunken stupor by the time he started telling the story to the rest of them. The other guards lobbed their not-quite-impressed opinions about it, mostly declaring that it just a folktale made up for bored travelers to share – albeit one that that was interesting enough for another round of ale between them.

They were like Luven, though. They only focused on the fire, not on what was left behind. Not on her.

Ysadette pushed her face into his chest as if she wanted to smother herself and clutched her necklace. Her howling sobs busied themselves by burning into Isro's memory for what he figured would be the rest of his life.

He leaned his head against the wall and sighed, looking to the sky. _I_ know _that you'd be proud of her,_ he thought. _Wherever you are now. I only wish she knew that, too._


	18. Pieces of Home

18

.~~~.

Ysadette pulled at the strings on her corset until she was happy with the way it fit over her clothes – meaning it wasn't tight enough to be suffocating like Suleh insisted it should've been. She already wasn't looking forward the long, bumpy cart ride ahead and neither was her tailbone. Not being able to do anything besides sit as stiff as a board and hold her breath the whole ride wouldn't make it any better.

Ysa flapped her collar to fan herself. Assuming she didn't overheat along the way, she supposed she would have time to worry about those things. There was a nip in the air, she wouldn't argue that, but she didn't see a reason in being bundled up in more than one layer of thick clothing. It would be another few months before any sort of winter chill swept across Cyrodiil. However, she figured she would be in Skyrim by then. Maybe that was why Suleh had given her clothes better suited for the snow rather than the roads between Chorrol and the Imperial City.

Regardless, Ysa knew she ought to be thankful. Otherwise, she might have been trying to scrub the swamp out of her old clothes and sew up the holes burned through them. Not that she was capable of it, anyway. She hadn't any idea how to use a needle without wreaking havoc on her fingers.

Ysadette recoiled as she thought that she caught a whiff that dreaded swamp lingering in the air. No, it couldn't have been possible. Four baths spaced out across a day – all scented with whatever heavenly things Suleh had cobbled together and tossed in – turned the odor of infection and death lingering from her trip to the witch's house into a distant if excruciating memory.

She suppressed her urge to gag as she fastened the hood around her shoulders and walked down the stairs to the first floor of the apothecary.

Suleh was sitting on the counter, mashing together some alchemy ingredients with her mortar and pestle in her lap. Isro was leaning against the wall, his arms folded over his chest, looking as if he were ready to nod off. He wasn't wearing his guard uniform for once, opting for much less official looking pair of baggy trousers and a plain colored shirt. There was a peculiar air of relaxation he gave off despite the bruises on him that he insisted Ysa leave to heal "the old fashioned way."

Ulpo sat at the table in his straight-backed posture that sometimes gave the impression he wasn't mad. If it weren't for his restless feet marching underneath the table, that is.

As Ysadette walked around the table, he leaned back in the chair and looked at her upside down until she took her place next to him. He didn't say anything, oddly. Not a peep. Maybe even in the midst of his insanity, he knew that the apothecary was silent for a reason. Instead, he nibbled on a big block of cheese, never swallowing a bite until his cheeks were puffed out like a chipmunk's.

Isro took his place at the table, the wooden chair creaking underneath him as he sat. Besides that and the gentle dinging of Suleh with her mortar and pestle, it was quiet.

Ysadette folded her hands in her lap and bowed her head.

Suleh set her tools aside before the ingredients were the consistency she usually worked them into. She pulled out a chair, folding one leg underneath her as she sat down. Her lips were pulled into a straight line and her eyes seemed to be looking everywhere besides at Ysadette.

"All ready to go?" Isro asked, putting his chin in his hand and leaning on the table.

Ysadette nodded. "I am," she said, feeling as if she had more to say. She knew she did, in fact. A "thank you" and "sorry for putting my face on you like a pillow and crying" were certainly options, but she couldn't force the words out. Instead, she let her thumbs wrestle each other underneath the table. It had already been uncomfortable enough for both of them and she didn't want to go adding to it.

"Off to the big old Imperial City, eh?" Suleh said, smiling weakly. "I'm a little jealous, to be honest. I've always wanted to go. I've heard that the Arboretum is beautiful."

Ysa nodded in agreement. "Me, too," she said. "I planned a trip to the city a few years ago, but some things came up and I couldn't find enough coin to pay for the ride there and back."

"I'll bet they've got some interesting alchemical ingredients around there," Suleh said, wagging her finger in the air. "Although, I don't think they'd take kindly to me picking their branches clean."

Isro blew out a laugh at that, leaning back from the table and folding his hands on his head. "You'll be heading north to Bruma after that, right?" he said.

Ysa nodded again. "Only so I can stock up on supplies," she said, sighing, "And then we'll cross over into Skyrim through the Pale Pass. To be frank, I'm not looking forward to the cold all that much. After living in Anvil for so long, I'm worried I won't be able to stand it in the North. I've heard there are some places there that don't ever thaw, not even in the summer."

Ysadette slumped forward and let out another sigh. "I assume I won't be too miserable if I stay in Falkreath Hold. However, I'm also worried that it's too close to the border," she said. "I would've decided on Solitude, but if the civil war going on in Skyrim ever reaches a boiling point, I imagine the most likely city to be dragged into it would be the capital, wouldn't it?"

Isro nodded. "Well, if that Jarl in Windhelm that started the whole thing really wants to make a point, he'll go right to the High King's doorstep," he said, the tone of his voice heavy. "Come to think of it, have you ever thought of going to Windhelm? The Stormcloaks have made it clear enough that they don't like the Thalmor."

Ysadette laughed humorlessly. "I'm not that desperate," she said. "The word is that it's not just the Thalmor they hate. It's all of elvenkind. If it's true, I don't believe Ulpo would have a day of peace for the rest of his life." She pushed her hair back and traced her hand over her ear, finding the pointed tip. "I'm not particularly interested in what they have to say about someone who is half-Altmer, either."

Isro lowered his chin to his chest. "Maybe they'd change their mind if you told them you hated the Thalmor just as much."

Ysa pushed her eyebrows together. "There was a saying I remember hearing in High Rock whenever two of the kingdoms would try to unite against another," she said. "A shared hatred doesn't make for a sturdy betrothal. I believe it meant that the moment you both lose the thing you hated together, you realize the cordiality you had before was shallow and nothing more. I imagine the same would be true for any shoddy alliance I could forge with the Stormcloaks.

"Putting their racial prejudices aside, I wouldn't want to be part of their war anyway. Skyrim culture has always been a bit unkind to mages. The Oblivion Crisis didn't help in changing any minds and neither did losing most of Winterhold to the Sea of Ghosts. Especially since it also happens to be home to the largest organization of mages in the entire province."

Suleh leaped to her feet. "That's it!" she said. "You could go to Winterhold! With the College there, you could enroll as a student and fit right in! And Ulpo could become an instructor so he's always close by!"

"I would, but…" Ysa trailed off, reaching over to Ulpo's collar. "Grandfather, may I?"

Ulpo took a bite of his cheese and nodded.

She tugged at his collar until the pulsing stone in his chest could peek out. "Have I showed this to either of you yet?"

Isro leaned planted his hands on the table and stood over it – eyes widening and mouth slightly hanging open. "No, I don't think you did," he muttered. "You didn't even mention it, in fact."

Suleh, leaning forward, reached out and tapped on the stone. Red lines curled around her fingertip, making her yank back and fold her arm against her chest. "It made my hand go numb!" she said, massaging her wrist. "What is it?"

Ysa covered the stone back up again. "I don't know," she said. "When I first found out about it, he was rather brief in his explanation. What he _did_ tell me is that it's some kind of artifact he pieced together."

"From what, exactly?" Isro asked.

"He didn't say," Ysa said. "But if you look closely, you can see the stitching lines on the surface. I'm not sure how deep it goes into his body but I can't imagine it leaving much room for his lungs or heart, meaning it may have some way of acting on their behalf. From what I've been able to tell, though, it's what's made him so powerful. That and an impossibly thorough grasp on the complexities of magic as a whole."

Isro settled back into his chair, posture stiff and uneasy. "But what did he need so much power for?" he asked.

Ysadette pursed her lips. "He needed a way to do the impossible. As if telling me that made any sense. But to answer your question, Suleh, as to why I'm not taking him to Winterhold," Ysa pointed to Ulpo's chest, "That stone is why. I'm sure the College would see him as some sort of creature to experiment on if they found out. I can't take the chance of them discovering it and splitting him open on a table just to see what happens next."

Suleh sat down again, wordless as she continued rubbing her arm, her fingers twitching as they seemed to regain strength.

Isro slouched in his chair. "But there has to be somewhere you can go," he said. "Maybe if the cities aren't safe, you could try living outside of them. Maybe stick to the wilderness and make a life for yourself out there?"

Hearing that, Ysadette's stomach dropped. Her options were limited, she was aware of that much, but she was only realizing then how few they truly were. "T-that may be for the best," she said softly. "I could build a nice little cabin for Ulpo and me to live in. If I'm extraordinarily lucky, I'll find a place with next to a lake with a nice view. It wouldn't be like the beaches in Anvil but it'd be better than nothing, I suppose."

As the words left her mouth, Ysa sensed the somber atmosphere around her becoming heavier. Isro's face darkened and he looked down at his feet, working his jaw around in tight circles. She wasn't sure if it was because he had nothing further to add or if it sounded as pitiful to him as it did to her.

Exile. Was that all the future had in store for her?

Suleh rocked back and forth, sucking in her lips and popping them out to fill the stretches of stagnant air between them. "You think you'll ever come back and visit?" she asked in a small voice.

Ysadette sighed and pushed her thumbs together. "I don't know. I have to take care of my Grand…" she trailed off. "Ulpo, I mean. Even with theories about the stone's uses, I have no idea if this journey's been difficult for him or not. I wouldn't want to ask him to do it all over again if it is."

Suleh smiled, but it didn't look to be the happy kind. "I see," she said. "Maybe we could come to visit you one day, then? I know it's a long trip but if you write us a letter and tell us where you've decided to settle down, we could…"

Isro shook his head. "Thalmor, remember?" he asked. "I don't know how long they'll keep searching, but elves live a long time and I wouldn't imagine them giving up anytime soon. It's too risky."

"Correct," Ysa said. She smashed her thumbs together until they hurt. "I may intend on coming up with new names when we get there, but I wouldn't be surprised if they could somehow figure out our old ones. Sending a letter would only give them a trail to follow and if I didn't tell you who it was from, you'd never know if it was me or not. I'm sorry, Suleh. I can't take the chance and giving my location away or having them come after you and Isro."

Suleh's smile – as falsely happy as it was – disappeared entirely. "You're probably right," she said, standing up from the table. She walked over to the counter, picked up the mortar and pestle and began to mash again. "I guess that means we have to say goodbye, don't we?" she said with her back turned.

Isro let out a long sigh. "There's something else I should mention before we do that," he said. "I had to tell the Captain about the curse, which meant he told the Countess before the battle started." He squinted his eyes at the table. "And she has to tell the Vigil of Stendarr so they can investigate. Mourning our fallen and cleaning up the city comes first, but after that, she'll have to send a report. I'm sorry."

Ysa tucked her hand underneath her chin. "So they'll be coming soon," she said. "Are they going to interrogate you and Suleh because of me?"

Isro shook his head. "No, Countess Leta promised me that she wouldn't use any names. They won't know who had a hand in breaking the curse and who didn't. They'll probably pass us over as well, considering I'm a lieutenant now."

"That's good," Ysa said, exhaling. "I wouldn't want to cause you any more trouble than I already have."

Suleh stopped mashing the ingredients and lowered her head. She stood behind the counter, motionless and quiet.

Ysadette turned and tried to stand, but Isro put his hand on her shoulder and gently tugged to sit her back down again.

"I've been meaning to ask you something about that plan of yours that I haven't been able to figure out," Isro said. "If you could've hit them all with those arrows, why did you light them on fire, too? Wasn't that a bit excessive?"

"Well, I didn't _quite_ hit them all," Ysa said, wincing. "At first, I intended on it. After we talked with Thaum in the garrison, I realized the value of having a bit of insurance."

"Meaning?" Isro asked.

Ysa shrugged. "I let a handful of them escape. That way, they can spread the word to the other bandits in County Chorrol about what happened here. Maybe the belief that Chorrol has some sort of fire-based defense mechanism will deter them from raiding the city again for a long while."

"Makes sense, I guess," he said, leaning back in his chair. "And, uh, people around the city have started talking about what you did, too. You've probably seen them from the window running all over the place trying to find out where you went."

Ysa rested her face in her hands. "What are they saying?"

Isro smirked. "That the Lady-In-Flames must've come all the way from the forests near Kvatch to save us," he said. "They're all keeping an eye out for her Squat-Demon right now, wondering if he's going to collect the souls of all the bandits and take them to the Void." He looked over at Ulpo who was still nibbling away. "Wonder what they'd say if they knew he preferred cheese and not souls?"

Ysadette stared blankly at Isro. "What in Dibella's name are you talking about?" she asked.

Isro raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean?" he asked. "I'm talking about you. _They're_ talking about you. Even Countess Leta believes in you now and she had to make an official statement a while back saying that the Lady-In-Flames didn't exist. Guess she looks silly now, eh?"

Ysa raised a brow skeptically at Isro and put her hand on his forehead. Normal temperature, as far as she could tell. "Are you still feeling sick?"

Isro pushed her arm away. "Haven't you heard the things they started saying about you and Ulpo after that forest fire?" he asked. "I don't even think the smoke cleared before word started spreading."

Ysa shook her head and sighed. "Did you forget?" she asked. "The day I arrived here was the first time I'd set foot inside a city in several months. I haven't had much in the way of human interaction for a while now. Besides the Nord family I traveled with a for a little bit. And, er, Ulpo."

"Sorry," Isro said, scratching his head.

Ysa shrugged. "It's fine," she said. "I suppose I'll have to get used to the feeling considering my options for the future are…"

With a crash, Suleh's mortar and pestle shattered on the ground.

Ysadette jumped up from her chair and ran around the counter. "Are you alright?" she asked, putting her hand on Suleh's back. Shards of paste-covered ceramic covered the floor. "It didn't hit your foot did it?"

Suleh spun around and pulled her into her arms, disregarding the broken mortar. "I don't know if I've ever properly thanked you," she said, her voice a strained whisper. "Even after you kept me and Isro safe on our way out of Hammerfell."

Ysa tried to push her off. "Suleh, please," she said. "You don't need to thank me for anything. I did it because we were friends. "

Suleh shook her head. "That's just the problem. We aren't friends. We weren't by the time we reached the border to Cyrodiil." Suleh pulled away, a toothy grin on her face in spite of the tears spilling down her cheeks. "We were family."

Choppy sentences without any endings stopped and started in Ysadette's head, each petering out before they reached her mouth. She could count on one hand the times she'd seen Suleh's cheery mien replaced with another.

Suleh didn't wait for her to respond. "And no matter how far away you go," she said, snorting so hard her nose titled on its side, "No matter how this turns out, even if it means this is the last time we see each other, I want you to remember that you're always welcome here. It doesn't matter if you're being chased by Daedra or Thalmor or both at the same time. We'll always be here for you. You don't have to be alone."

Isro got up from the table and came around the counter to join them. Suleh put her arm out and brought him into the embrace.

"So I'm going to say it now," Suleh said as she and Isro crowded around her. "Thank you. For everything. For keeping my little brat of a brother safe when I couldn't."

Isro patted Suleh on the back. "I'm right here, you know."

Suleh covered her sob with a laugh. "For doing what no one else could," she said. "And being there when we needed you."

Despite Suleh's kind words, Ysa didn't like being trapped between them. She was already warm from the clothes and having their combined body heats pressed against her made her fear she was moments away from sweating. She didn't push them away, though. Feeling them around her after so long of being isolated in the woods – not a soul around besides Ulpo and whatever creatures lurked nearby – made a part of her that Ysa feared to be dead stir to life again. They were warm in a good way, a comforting way, and in a contradictory way, she didn't want them to let go.

She inhaled the scent of the apothecary again, tasting each ingredient from the thickness of the air, and knew that she wouldn't be doing it again. When they pulled away, she found herself losing the battle of keeping a straight face. Ysa put her hands on their cheeks, committing their details to memory. "I'm going to miss you both," she said as they embraced one final time.

.~~~.

Ysadette stood outside Chorrol's gates, waiting for the driver to find his way to the cart. She had everything she could fit inside her belt satchel – a bit of food so they didn't have to stop as often and some Canis root for tea brewing when they did – and a waterskin slung over her shoulder. Ulpo was holding her hand with both of his, eyes shut and head tilted back as if he were asleep standing up. She guessed that he wasn't since she didn't hear any sort of snoring, but it didn't bring her any closer to figuring out what he was actually doing. Just to be on the safe side, she maintained a bit of pull to keep him from falling backward.

Ysa covered her mouth and yawned. In a way, she envied Ulpo in his ability to sleep seemingly at any time and place. Or do whatever it was he was doing. The morning was gray and dull even with the sounds of Chorrol sifting through the rubble coming from behind. If she had to wait too much longer, she imagined she'd be sprawled out on the ground before the driver got there. When patting herself on the cheeks stopped being a good method of preventing her mind from wandering, she removed one of the tiny vials Suleh had placed in her hands as she left the apothecary looked over it.

Ysadette didn't know what to make of the little things it held inside. Suleh had insisted they were exactly like potions, just in a smaller, chewier, and what she'd been assured was a sweeter form. Ysa took one out and squished it between her finger and thumb. It was brightly colored like a potion, so how on Nirn could it possibly be sweet? A better question was how it would function the same way, now that she thought about it. A note tied to the side of the vial offered a little bit of an explanation, but not enough that she was confident in their effectiveness.

" _These are some special items I've been cooking up for a quite a while now!"_ it read. Ysa could almost hear Suleh's bouncy voice through the written words. _"I plan on selling them some time, but I wanted you to have the first successful batch! I call them jelly-potions! Just pop one in your mouth when you need a potion and chew it up – they're just the same! The red ones are for healing wounds and they taste like strawberries. The blue ones are for increased magicka and taste plums. The green ones will make sure you're awake and alert for the next several hours no matter how tired you were before. They taste like grapes!"_

At the bottom, Suleh had signed it in her extravagant manner, which happened to simply be several consecutive swirls added on the end of her name. Below that, a postscript.

" _P.S. And it's the green kind of grapes. Not the purple ones. I don't like the purple ones as much."_

Another signature followed, making the whole note a little peculiar to read.

Curiosity tempted Ysadette as she looked at the vibrant squishy things in their glass prison. If they really tasted the way Suleh insisted, it would take an inordinate amount of self-control to avoid devouring them all in one sitting – despite the circumstances. Coincidentally, Suleh had left that part out.

Ysa sighed, dropping the jelly-potion back into the vial with the rest and shoving it into her belt satchel. She'd have to stake her hesitance on the fact that she couldn't be sure if Suleh was playing one last joke on her for old time's sake. She didn't want to be stopping every ten minutes on the side of the road and making a break for the bushes.

She stood around for another half-hour when a scruffy man exited the city and walked towards her. "You lookin' for a ride?" he called out, tugging at the hilariously oversized bag on his shoulder, looking like a much smaller man than he really was.

She nodded. "To the Imperial City, yes," she said. "Are you the driver?"

The man nodded. "Name's Barro," he said, pushing his thumb into his chest. "And you're in luck. I'm heading that way. But, eh, you got coin, don't you?"

Ysadette tossed him a coin purse. It was all that she had left – including the little bit Isro and Suleh could spare – but it wasn't as if she had a better choice. Using her magic to run all the way there was certainly an option and likely a faster one, but not the inconspicuous one she needed. "That ought to cover it," she said.

Barro opened the coin purse and smiled. "You ready to go or you need a little bit to prepare?"

Ysa helped Ulpo into the back of the covered cart. "I would've kept my coin purse if I weren't ready," she said and climbed in behind him.

Barro leaped into the driver's seat and laughed. "Now, you, my dear, sound like my kind of woman!" he said, whipping the reins and making the horse move. "Ready to go at a moment's notice!"

Ysadette rolled her eyes. Barro continued to laugh.

"I guess I don't blame you for wanting to get out of the city, though," Barro said. "I wouldn't want to stay either with Demons and bandits all over the place. Or whatever in Oblivion it was that happened the other day."

"Uh-huh," Ysa said as she laid down on her side and put her arm under her head. _Please, don't let him be a chatty one._

"You leave a place for a few weeks and then what?" Barro asked. "Place gets attacked! I swear, I miss all the interesting things in life sitting on this damned cart! Take it from me, ma'am; when we get to the Capital, do yourself a favor and find a line of work that doesn't involve staring into a horse's ass from sun up to sun down. You might not live longer but you'll live happier."

"I hear you," she said, rolling over onto her back and trying not to groan out loud. _Lady_ _Dibella, give me strength and give me patience._

Barro continued to rant at the sky and trees and birds – his horse, Chunkyhoof, too – until Ysa finally found a way to tune ignore him. It was becoming increasingly obvious the bumpy road wasn't going to be the biggest headache of the ride.

She folded her hands behind her head and looked out of the back of the cart as they traveled down the hill and into the depths of the Great Forest. The walls of Chorrol, having one hole more than when she arrived, shrank away until they were gone and covered by the orange-leafed trees surrounding the cart.

Isro had assured her that things would be back to normal in town soon enough. The wall would be repaired in less than a month and during that time, they'd pick a new captain to keep order. However, his reassurance didn't stop her from wondering how they intended on keeping the city from being overrun with woodland creatures until then. Part of her wanted to stay behind and help the town recover. Surely they could use healers like her and, in a way, she missed closing wounds and seeing the happiness it brought. If what Isro said about her becoming the center of a folk tale was true, though, she couldn't take that chance. It wasn't all bad, she figured. Ysadette would rather be chased by awestruck fans than either of the two kinds of inquisitors running across Tamriel.

Her cheeks grew hot. She folded her hands over her stomach as she imagined herself walking into a city, tongues of flame trailing behind her like a flowing gown – scores of people shouting and falling over themselves for a chance at meeting…

No, that was silly. It was childish. She didn't need to waste any time thinking about things that would never happen, that _couldn't_ happen.

She rolled her tongue in her mouth, trying to remember what it was Isro had called her. The Lady-In-Flames?

Having a reputation that dramatic seemed like a nice change of pace at first, but all it truly did was present her with a fresh source of paranoia. Forgetting Ulpo's moment of clarity in the forest and her own display in Chorrol, Ysadette had done her best to cover her tracks. Had she been cautious enough, though? Or had she made another mistake along the way? Perhaps something she did without thinking first? Her mind had been hazy at best after that night in the woods, so there was a chance that she…

The cart hit a bump in the road, launching her thoughts out of her head in the form of a mumbled curse. Ysa held onto her seat to keep from falling over, but Ulpo rolled off his and into the floor. She bolted upright and grabbed him before he could roll around some more, setting him next to her. Ysadette wrapped him in his cloak like a blanket so he wouldn't flail around in his sleep and held him in her arms. He clutched his beloved fork and muttered nonsense, never breaking rhythm with his thunderous snoring.

She breathed a sigh of relief. He wasn't hurt. After what they'd been through, having him done in by a bump on the head from a cart ride would've been spectacularly defeating. Ysa pulled her hood over her head and leaned back, letting her eyes drift closed.

The more Ysa listened to him snore, the more comforting the sound became. As long as he was there, a piece of her old life in Anvil remained, she figured. It was a wrinkly, old piece that didn't know how to comb his hair without firing a spell into the sky, but that was fine, too.

She couldn't be picky about what she held onto. Not anymore.

Ysadette thought about the last time she'd fled from a place for good – the night she'd fled from Anvil. It felt like an eternity had passed since then, that night when her cozy life fell apart, piece by piece.


	19. Decomposition

19

.~~~.

Ysadette fastened the buckle on her bag and spun around. Her bookshelf loomed behind her, each tome begging to be taken along. She shut her eyes, unable to meet them face-to-face, and grabbed whichever two she touched first. When she looked again, a book she'd brought all the way from High Rock titled _Myths of Sheogorath_ and the mysterious black book Andard had given her were in her hands. She tossed them into her bag and ran into her bedroom, almost tripping on the stairs. She swirled around once she was there, surrounded by the hanging knick-knacks and oddities she'd collected over the years. There just wasn't space for them all – not in any of her overstuffed satchels.

Ysa ran down the stairs and back into the main room. Andard was grabbing whatever he could and shoving it into his own satchel. He whipped his head around, scanning everything with his panicked eyes until they stopped on Ulpo who was standing with his face in the corner. He frowned for a moment, his once laid-back demeanor flip-flopping between disdain and terror, before mumbling a few words that Ysa couldn't hear.

She couldn't let him do this. Not without saying a single word about it. Ysa stopped him from packing and cupped his face in her hands, keeping him from fidgeting and forcing him to look her in the eyes. "You don't have to do this," she said. "You can stay here. Ulpo and I will leave. You can pretend like we never existed. If it isn't as bad as we think it is, we'll come home one day."

Andard put his hand underneath her chin and pulled until her lips were against his. When he stepped back, he smiled his half-smirk at her. "If you're going, I'm going, too," he said. "It's that simple. I don't care how far we go or how long we're there. The only way I'm letting you go anywhere alone is if I've been dragged into Aetherius. You can count on that."

It didn't matter that he smiled. Ysa felt his heart pounding when they kissed, felt his hand trembling as he touched her. That told her all she needed to know. He had to be aware of the danger he was going to be in. But Andard's oafish conviction never let a meager thing such as fear get in the way – not when his mind was made up. For once, she didn't know whether she loved or hated that about him. "Then we can't waste any more time," she said. "We'll finish packing and leave town immediately. Ulpo?"

"Yes, girl?" Ulpo said, bouncing to her side from the corner he'd been giving a death-stare while they packed.

"We're going on a short trip," Ysa said softly, hoping to avoid spooking him if that was even possible. "We'll need to be very cautious along the way. Don't speak with anyone unless I do so first and never leave my side no matter what happens. Do you understand…" she trailed off, a second away from saying his name.

It occurred to her then that speaking his name, if the Dominion _did_ know it, wasn't a good idea any longer. There had to be something she could call him, something that fit him. When Ysa looked at his wrinkled, smiling face and thought of his peculiar habits, she knew what that was. "Grandfather?" she said, placing her hands on his shoulders. "Do you understand, Grandfather?"

Ulpo's eyes – always looking in two directions at once - focused on her. "Grandfather?"

"You are my Grandfather, aren't you?" she asked again.

Ulpo smiled wide. "D'oh, yes," he said, reaching up and pinching her cheeks. "I remember when you were a tiny, little thing hanging onto my ankles as I walked. You're so tall now! Why, I could hang off yours!"

Ysadette rubbed her cheeks after he let go. She didn't think that would work, actually.

"I've got everything, Detta," Andard said, shaking one of the bags slung over his shoulder. "Food, clothing, and a map so we don't get lost. Is there anything else?"

Ysadette looked around the room once more. She'd managed to pack the most important things, the sentimental items she couldn't replace, but the rest just couldn't fit no matter how much she hated leaving them behind. "No, I think that's everything," she said.

Andard pushed the door open slightly and peeked at the darkness through the crack, one hand lingering on the sword at his hip. "There's nobody out here," he said, stepping outside. "Grab the Fool and let's make a run for it while we have a chance."

Ysa took Ulpo's hand and led him out of the house behind Andard. She stopped, thinking that she ought to lock the door. When she held the key out, she noticed her hands were shaking. Why was she locking it anyway? They were probably going to break it down when they came for her. Stupid. Ysa put the key back into her satchel and set her hand on the door, feeling the wood grain on her fingertips. It was just a place, she figured, but it was hers.

Three and a half years' worth of work and coin – in addition to many months of floating between the Chapel, the Inn, and eventually Andard's house when it was time to sleep – was what it took to buy the deed. It was cheaper than anywhere else in town – barely more than rundown cabin that desperately needed love and care from the right person – but it was, above all else, _hers._ It was the first home she ever owned. It was, more or less, her dream home. The only thing it lacked was the admittedly tacky coat of paint she imagined it having when she was a little girl.

In the spot she was standing, she kissed Andard for the first time, told him the most enchanting three words in all of Tamriel for the first time – the ones that made her face feel as if it were on fire when he said them back to her.

Now, as she stood on the other side of the door, looking at it underneath the moonlight, she wondered if she would ever see it again. She dropped her hand by her side and it was immediately taken by Andard.

"Detta, we have to go," he said.

Ysadette nodded and bid her home, the place she imagined herself growing old in, no matter its tiny size, farewell as she followed Andard into the alleyway.

They purposely avoided the lantern-lined streets as they made their way across the city. Guards made their rounds in the night, the clanking of their armored footsteps heralding their presence long before they were visible. The last time Ysadette found herself out late at night, she was alone. She remembered the fear she felt lurking just behind her then, wondering if someone just beyond her sight was waiting to spring out of the dark and do horrible things to her. Somehow, though, she found herself preferring that terror over the new one she'd found herself in.

Back then, the guards and the lanterns were like beacons of safety to guide her home. Now, Ysadette couldn't help but see them as evil eyes searching every nook and cranny in Anvil to turn her over to the Thalmor. They had their hands in every form of government in Cyrodiil, from what she'd heard of them. Turning the city guard against her, whether through truth or by falsified claims, would've been child's play for them. Nowhere was safe. Not anymore.

Ysadette's heart pounded. Her lungs shuddered with each breath. Every movement, including that of her own shadow, made her thoughts accelerate to dizzying speeds, every sound amplified to deafening, sending her into a spiraling free-fall that she couldn't stop. Careening into ice that would freeze her solid.

Her stomach turned over until it was knotted tight. Ysa had been afraid before, but it all seemed so silly in comparison. They were temporary. She could remember their beginnings and their ends.

There wasn't any turning back this time. Her life was over and she was utterly powerless to stop it.

She squeezed Andard's hand, silently begging him to pull her back up before she lost herself in the horror.

He glanced over his shoulder, half-smirk and passive eyes reassuring, and squeezed back.

Ysadette squeezed harder. He was there. He was safe. She could take solace in Mother Lalia's encouraging words and hope that they'd prove true when the time came.

 _As long as we're together,_ Ysa thought, _We'll find a way. We have to._

As they neared the city gates, Andard pulled her close and came to a stop in the shadows of a house. He put his arm out and nudged her against the wall, pressing himself flat beside her. "Guards," he whispered, craning his neck out. "Two of them standing there. I don't see any more around but we'll need to do something about them unless we want to circle back around to the other side." He looked over at Ysadette. "Can you use your magic to distract them?"

Ysa took a deep breath and daringly let go of his hand. She had to be strong. For both of them. Ysadette held her jittery hands still long enough to focus her magicka into her palms. Puffs of mist lifted from her fingertips as ice crystallized around her nails, spreading out and piling up to form a jagged ball. She lifted it above her head, leaning back to give herself more leverage, and launched it high into the air. The ice ball flew in an arch, leaving a trail of mist illuminated by the moonlight, and smashed somewhere behind the house across the street.

"Ha!" Andard whispered, jumping a little bit. "Like glass breaking! Smart."

The two guards looked at one another, helmeted faces hiding their suspicious eyes. They exchanged a few words and one broke away from the other to investigate the noise.

Andard watched until he was gone, then turned to Ysadette. "Now, stay right here until I give the signal."

She reached out and caught him by the hand before he could get away. "Where are you going?"

Andard smiled and squeezed back. He slipped out of her grasp and stepped out of the alleyway, hand on the hilt of his sword as he slinked through the shadows towards the guard.

Ysadette felt the realization wash over her. He wasn't going to do _that_ , was he? Andard wouldn't do that. He'd never hurt anyone.

The guard noticed Andard as he drew closer and held up his hand. "Stop right there, sir," he said, walking forward, "It's two hours past curfew and…"

Andard ripped his sword from its sheath and rammed it into the guards neck, piercing through to the other side. He ran forward and pinned the man to the towering doors, showering the ground with enough blood to fill several buckets. The only noise the man had time to make before he drowned was a sloppy gargle.

Ysadette slammed her hand over her mouth and tried not to scream. Her heart skipped several beats, making her think it'd stopped entirely. The back of her throat burned with what little she'd managed to force into her stomach since her interrogation in the Chapel. Her head wouldn't stop spinning. Right in front of her. She'd never seen someone killed so close. Andard would never do something like that. But he did.

He killed that man. He slaughtered him like it was nothing. He was a murderer.

 _Andard_ was a murderer.

She watched him yank his sword out to another spray, wiping his hand across his face and flicking spots of red on the ground where the body landed with a wet slap.

Ysadette gripped Ulpo's hand tight enough that he yelped as she stormed out into the street. "You didn't need to hurt him!" she said in a scream-whisper. "W-why would you do that? What if he had a family waiting for him?"

Andard turned around, his shirt splattered with so much blood it was more red than it was its original white and purple. "I'd rather hurt him than give him the chance of hurting you," he said with a shudder in his voice. "Let's get out of here before the other one comes back." He stuck his blood-soaked hand out to her.

Ysadette instinctively stepped back, her arm flying out to push Ulpo behind her. She watched it drip from his hand in rounded globs and splatter on the ground. "Have you done this before? Killed someone, I mean."

Andard looked down at the body, his gaze growing distant as his arms dropped limply by his sides.

"Answer me," Ysa said, lowering her tone. "Please."

"Twice," he said. "It's why I stopped going into ruins and started trading with the sailors for my inventory. I-I couldn't…" Andard trailed off, sucking down a shaky breath. "I didn't want to do it ever again."

The guard's corpse looked at Ysadette with unblinking eyes – horror trapped in them forever. It wasn't like watching someone die of something natural like old age. It was barbaric. There was so much blood. There couldn't be that much inside a person.

Ysadette felt sick. So horribly sick. Andard might've been the one who delivered the killing blow but she was just as much a part of the murder as he was.

"I'm sorry, Detta," Andard said, his entire body visibly shaking. "I'm so sorry. I didn't want to do it. I wanted to let him live. But I couldn't –"

Ysa clasped his hand in hers and shushed him. "I know," she said. "I know you didn't."

Andard looked up at her. His eyes were puffy and red, horrified and not passive like they always were. "I couldn't let him hurt you. I just couldn't. Not him or anyone else."

Ysadette looked to the building where the other guard had went. Tiny lights moved through across the windows throughout the house. The owners were awake. "Andard, we have to go, right? That's why you killed him? So we could leave safely?"

Andard nodded slowly.

"Then let's go," Ysa said, tugging at his arm. She stopped, her mouth turning putrid as she realized those words had come from her. Only hours prior, she was healing a man's wounds. Now, she was letting one die.

Was that all it took for her to turn cruel? Fear? Her mother hadn't taught her to be so horrible, so selfish. Always do the right thing. That was what she'd been taught.

Was letting someone slip into an early grave to protect someone she loved the right thing, though? Was there even a right choice in the situation?

Andard tightened his grip on his sword, turning his knuckles a pasty white. "You're right," he said, voice uncharacteristically deflated as grabbed her hand with his bloodied one and dragged her through the door.

Ysadette figured she didn't have time to debate that any longer. She prayed to Dibella for the man, wishing his soul a safe journey to wherever it was headed next. For herself for, too, for letting him go.

As they exited the city, the winds blowing across the moonlight-bathed hills whistled in Ysadette's ears. Other than that, it was silent. Not an owl hooted and not a wolf howled. With Andard leading the way, they started down the long path leading away from Anvil and into the countryside. As they passed underneath the shadow of Golden Pass Stables, Ysadette tugged at Andard's hand and pointed towards them.

His eyes traced up her arm and out. Andard grimaced when he realized what she was suggested. "Horse thievery?" he asked. "Really?"

"You just killed a man," Ysa said. "If you're caught and arrested, you'll probably be executed. I'd rather steal a horse or two than let them hang you from a tree outside of town so every traveler can mock your corpse."

Andard shrugged but followed her anyway. When they reached the doors, she put her hand on the lock and froze it, stepping aside as Andard approached with his sword held over his head. He smashed the lock with two swings and pushed the doors open.

Ysa didn't waste time picking her favorite. She grabbed one of the saddles and set in on the first horse she thought didn't have a mischievous look in its eyes.

"Who's out there?" a voice, likely the owner of the stables, called out. "Come into the light where I can see you!"

Andard leaped onto his horse, pulling Ulpo up behind him. He whipped the reins, letting out a shout as he drove his heels into the sides of his horse. The horse neighed and thundered out of the stables, nearly running down the owner.

"Guards!" the owner screamed, stumbling back. "Guards! He's stealing my horses!"

There was an opening. Ysa whipped the reins and rode out of the stables as fast as she could.

The owner screamed and cursed at them, realizing he was not losing one – but two – of his animals, swearing he would find them and make them pay dearly for what they'd done.

One more crime. At the rate she was committing them, Ysadette wondered if the Divines would collectively decide to strike her dead before dawn.

As soon as they were on the open road, she and Andard let their horses gallop. She looked back one final time as Anvil gradually vanished into the night – even the lights from the lanterns around the city being swallowed up into the darkness. She remembered the first time she laid eyes on the it, the beaches and red rooftops being so vividly engraved in her memory. It wasn't the only city in Cyrodiil – far from it – but it was the moment she felt the sand underneath her bare feet, the water crashing against her legs, and the sun on her skin when she realized it was where she wanted to call home. There just wasn't any place like it.

And now she was leaving it all behind.

Anvil disappeared into the night, leaving Ysadette with only the road ahead to look forward to. She locked her eyes on Ulpo's back as he held tightly to Andard, who looked over his shoulder every now and then, smiling his half-smirk at her.

She smiled back at him every time. As long as they were together, anywhere could be home, just as Mother Lalia had said. They could overcome it all together.

Together.

A flash of light engulfed the world around Ysadette, ushering in blackness with its departure.

Then she was flat on her back, staring at the night sky. Waves of rhythmic pain washed over her, drilling into her bones and leaving her unable to do anything but groan until it stopped. Ysadette rolled onto her side and pressed a hand to her abdomen, easing the ache with her magic. She propped herself up on her elbows and looked around. The few bags she had been carrying were thrown about the road, their contents scattered. Ahead, lying deathly still on the roadside, was her horse.

"Tsk, tsk, tsk," a voice said, approaching her from behind. "As if you weren't guilty of enough crimes. Here you are; stealing horses, too."

Morar, the other Justiciar from the Chapel, stepped over her and squatted low, smiling at her with a hint of what she was sure was false pity. "I suppose Lord Ravano was correct in his assumption. You truly were foolish enough to try running away."

Before Ysa could blink, Morar smashed the tip of his boot into her face, whipping her head back. Her eyes watered like she was crying and she put her hand over her nose to stop all the blood in her head from gushing out.

"And now look at what you've done!" Morar said. "I've lost a bet because of you. It's a shame. I really was hoping I would be correct this time so I could rub it in that smug face of his. Oh well. I suppose I ought to look on the bright side of things; I won't have to stand outside in the dark alone all night."

He kicked her again. Ysa rolled across the ground, clutching the ribs she'd just healed. With her nose still spurting and her lips still cracked, she chose to heal them first.

"I will make this simple, Miss Ence," Morar said, walking towards her with his hands clasped behind his back. "The Aldmeri Dominion isn't rife with fools as you seem to believe it is. Lord Ravano and I are aware that you aren't responsible for the disturbance."

Ysadette coughed and tried to stand up. As if it were a game to him, Morar pushed her back down again.

"However, it's plain to see that you know who caused it," he said. "Your reaction to our investigation has made that evident enough."

Ysa worked her way to her knees and forced herself to sit up. "I don't…" she trailed off, her ribs throbbing as her lungs inflated. She wiped the running blood on her face with her forearm. "I have no idea who it was that caused it."

Morar sighed and held his face in his hand. "Please, I'm in no mood for your childish games and I'm not willing to return to Lord Ravano without so much as a confession. He's expressed a great deal of interest in finding this mysterious mage, you see. I do believe he would've torn the city apart to find him, given the proper permission."

Ysa balled her fists. "And you'd waste as much time doing that as you are attacking me."

Morar drove his foot into her again. Ysa landed flat on her back, casting yet another healing spell as he squatted over her.

"Really, now," Morar said, "This is beginning to feel a bit silly. It's far more likely you'll run out of magicka before I tire of giving you a good thrashing."

Ysa tried to sit up, expecting another strike, yet Morar didn't move. He only watched her in silence, studying her face with more scrutiny than he had in the Chapel. She bit her lip, glancing beyond him at the road. Along the edge, a pair of eyes looked back at her.

Andard crept out of the bushes, the moonlight glinting off his sword.

Ysa leaned forward dropped her head low. "Please," she said, adding a sniffle, "I don't know why you're doing this. If you'd tell me something, perhaps I could help you."

Morar chuckled. "Miss Ence, you needn't flatter yourself," he said. "Lord Ravano has the Aldmeri Dominion at his disposal. Every mage, every soldier, even the Queen herself would give him whatever he requested. He has no need for your kind and neither do I. Your compliance only serves to speed the inevitable and give you a chance of living to see the sunrise."

Ysa glanced at Andard. Still too far. "You've been using his name as if I should know it," she said. "If this Ravano is so important, why haven't I heard of him before?"

Morar dragged his palm across his face. "Because the great Mede Dynasty would rather you only hear that disgusting excuse for a moniker they gave to him," he said. "The Pale Hangman? You've heard that name before, haven't you?"

Andard crept closer. Closer. Just a little longer.

"The one who delivered the heads of every Blades agent in Valenwood and Alinor to the Emperor?" Morar continued. "You ought to know him. For once you see his face and he sees yours, it's only a matter of time before your death arrives. Which reminds me…" Morar trailed off and grabbed her by the chin, forcing her head into a painful angle. His hand traced over her jawline and felt underneath her hair, stopping at her ear.

"Ah, so I was correct in some regard today," he said. "You're a true half-breed, aren't you? A mongrel? I thought I saw Altmer traits in your face. Your mother was a Breton, yes, another kind of mongrel, but your father wasn't, was he?"

Ysadette kept her lips together, trying to keep from spitting in his eye.

Morar's smirk disappeared as her silence grew long. "That look in your eyes? It's much too familiar. Tell me, does the name Sinyon mean anything to you? Did your mother ever speak it?"

She grabbed his wrist and tried to pull his hand away. "Mother never told me much about my father," she said, "Besides that he died before I was born and that she loved him."

His haughty smirk spread again like wings across his thin face and he laughed. "Is that so? Well, if she's who I believe her to be then she's got a very peculiar idea of love. I was under the impression it wasn't something so, er, _forceful_." Morar let her go and pushed her back to the ground.

"Disgusting," he said, wiping his hand on his robes. "You do know what's done with your kind in Alinor, don't you? We prefer to chop them up and use them as treats for the gryphons. They seem to find the taste of half-breeds especially appetizing."

Andard raised to full height, holding his sword out to plunge it into Morar's back as he drew near to striking distance. Ysadette kept her eyes on Morar, chattering out pleas for him to let her go to cover Andard's footsteps.

"I doubt you were aware of that, though," Morar said. His eyes flicked to the side, fire popping in his hand. "You must be an idiot of immeasurable scale…"

Andard shoved his sword downward. Morar slipped out of the way. Flames spurted from his hand, leaving a trail of glowing particles as he brought his arm around.

The blood drained from Ysadette's face, the world slowing almost to a halt as she watched Morar's hand crack against Andard's cheek, sending him into a spin. A scream tore through Ysadette's body like a wild animal trapped in her lungs trying to fight its way out.

Andard dropped to the ground, clutching the side of his smoldering face and kicking his legs as his gasps filled the painful silence. When his gasps finally ended, his screams – agonized and raw as if they took all his strength to expel – pierced the silence of the night.

Morar shook his hand to extinguish the flames still clinging to life in his hand. "Since you believed I wouldn't notice a tactic so obvious," he said, casting a glare back at Andard as he writhed. "Stop being so loud, idiot. You're going to attract wolves. They can tell if you're stupid by the sound of your voice."

Adrenaline sprinted through Ysa's veins, forcing her to snap the ropes of horror tying her down. She didn't know what she was going to do, but by the Divines, she'd do something! She grabbed Morar by the ankle and forced her magicka into her hand, shunting an ice spike into his leg.

He howled and stomped her arm. She felt the bone snap partway to her elbow. Ysa enlarged the ice spike, spreading it through his shin and freezing his leg solid up to the knee.

Morar kicked her away with his other leg, but she sprang to her feet and leaped at him again. Ysa locked her legs around him, screaming every curse she knew as she clawed at his face with ice-covered fingers.

Morar grabbed her by the base of the neck, turning her light as a feather as he ripped her away and tossed her on the ground. Electricity arced around his hands, zapping buzzing insects in the air.

Ysa threw up a ward, letting out a cry as her shattered arm protested the motion. A bolt of lightning crashed into the ward, breaking both itself and the magic wall. The impact launched her away. Ysa skidded across the ground on her back, wincing at the burning scrapes opening on her elbows. She'd never been run over by an angry bull, but she imagined it couldn't have felt much different. Another bolt raced by her, making her hair stand on end as it tore a smoking hole through a tree trunk in the distance.

"You're both fools!" Morar shouted, massaging his leg, turning the ice spike to steam and closing the wound it cause. "This could've been simple! You could've told me what I wanted to know! I could've let you go and yet you've clearly decided you'd rather die!"

Andard clambered to his feet, slumped over and one hand holding his face. Ysa had never seen so much hatred in his eyes. It didn't even look like Andard, didn't sound like him, shrieking as he charged Morar and plunged the sword into his back.

Morar coughed up a glob of blood and grabbed Andard by the throat.

Ysa mended her broken arm with one spell and launched a pebble with another, striking Morar in the temple and throwing him off balance.

Andard, seeing the opportunity, twisted his sword and forced Morar to the ground.

Morar let him go and put his hand on the bloody tip of the sword jutting through his chest and coughed up another red drizzling. One hand glowed gold, closing the wound around the blade as his other sparked again.

"Andard!" Ysa screamed. "Get away from him!"

A humming sound filled the air as Morar's body covered itself in a field of electricity.

Tendrils reached out and snapped at Andard, stiffening his muscles and making him convulse before he hit the ground. He curled up on his side, shivering violently.

Morar grabbed the sword with both hands and pushed it out of his chest, grunting as he closed the wound with magic. He held the sword by the blade and spun it around as he approached Andard.

Ysa jumped to her feet, running as fast as she could, launching spell after spell at him, pleading for one to hit. Just one.

Andard rolled over and stuck his arm out as if he intended to block it. Morar leaned down to him and pushed the sword through his shoulder and into the ground. Andard writhed, his voice leaping between groans and wails, hands grasping at the blade and trying to pull it out. Andard then looked at her, reaching out to her as she ran.

Morar shoved it deeper. "Be a good idiot and wait your turn," he said, taking his hand off the blade and turning to Ysadette. His body reflected the blue of the spark cloak surrounding him. He clenched his fists and walked towards her, leaving a trail of lightning as footprints. "It will only be a minute longer."

A marching of lightning bolts crashed into her wards, breaking each into pieces, forcing her pace to a crawl as she felt her magicka draining with each impact. She fell to her knees, sucking down air as he walked on. Morar was completely unfazed by everything she threw at him, unbothered by chaining so many spells together.

Why? How could he be so strong and her so weak? After so much learning from Ulpo and still she was nothing?

Ysa put her fist against her chest, trying to slow her heart before it beat all the way through. Her head ached and her fingertips were numbing themselves. Those wards were too much to keep using. She was running out of magicka – fast – and running out of options even faster. Morar wasn't just a regular mage. He'd have a spell for every situation. Everything she threw at him, he could counter with sheer force alone.

"You've stopped!" Morar said. "Have you changed your mind about talking? I'm afraid it won't make much difference at this point! You've already hurt my leg, you see. That can't be forgiven!"

Ysadette coughed out the phlegm in the back of her throat as she stood up. She needed an opening. Needed a way to slow him down. She could heal Andard and they could run. No, she needed to stop him entirely or he'd chase them. If only she had a way of matching him, blow for blow.

She almost gasped when the idea hit her. Ulpo had taught her a spell at some point – one that he promised did the very thing. Ysa widened her stance and tried to focus on casting it. She'd done it before – albeit with a tiny jolt of electricity from Ulpo to demonstrate – she could do it again.

Morar raised an eyebrow at her, but continued walking.

"Detta!" Andard howled, still fighting to pull the sword from his shoulder. "Just let him have what he wants!"

Ysa shook her head, welling up her magicka. Her skin prickled and turned glossy.

"You ought to listen to that idiot of yours," Morar spat. A combination of flames, frost-crystals, and lightning snaked around his fingers. "This is your last chance to talk, Mongrel Woman."

Ysa took a deep breath. "I'm not giving up," she said, bracing herself for what was to come.

"As you wish," he said, sighing. Morar raised his arms high, gathering light in them. A thunderclap shook the ground as his flurry of spells screeched through the air at her.

"Detta!" Andard screamed.

Ysa skidded across the ground when the spell smashed into her. First it was the searing heat from his flames. Then a chill as cold as the grave. Last came the tingling that stiffened her muscles and brought her to her knees. But deep inside, right at the core of her body, she could feel them. Turning back. Becoming hers. Ysa crossed her arms in front of herself, feeling it travel to her hands. She stood up, knees shaking and legs stiff, holding it as it tried to overflow. Ysa gritted her teeth, trying to keep herself from splitting apart.

Morar readied himself to fire once more.

He wouldn't get that chance. With a flash of light brighter than the one that had thrown her from her horse, Ysadette unleashed the spell she'd been holding in.

Morar put his arms up to block it, casting a ward that shattered like glass the moment it crystallized. He staggered back as his robes burst into flames and turned to ash. Red lines like a spider web, glowing like the pit of a forge, raced across his limbs and over his agony-twisted face as his arms burned away. With a pained whimper – not even a cry – Morar's body shattered in the other direction like a wave breaking on the shore. A trail of blackened earth spread out behind him, scorching the grass and leaving sparkles of ice fluttering in the air. Where he once cast a shadow, a silhouette of unburned land had taken its place, freezing his final pose in the dirt.

Ysadette stumbled forward, gasping for air that seemed too thick to fit inside her lungs. Everything – from her head to her toes – seared angrily with the overflow of magic she'd tried to take in. She lifted her twitching arms, trails of smoke rising from her cold skin, and coughed out a puff of smoke. A mistake. If the outside of her was seared, her insides felt as if they'd been shredded to pieces. Both of those pains together blurred her vision, made her incapable of forming anything intelligible as she did her best to stay conscious.

Then, the pain began to ebb – trickling away with her strength in tow. When she convinced herself that she could move, she didn't even think of where she was going. Ysa forced herself to stagger to Andard, dropping onto the ground when she reached him.

He looked up at her, face tightened in pain yet smirking as he put his hand over the sword pinning him to the ground. It wasn't his usual half-smirk made reassuring and soothing by his passive eyes, though. It was a broken thing, a pain-riddled thing with cooked flesh pulling at the very edge of it.

Ysa took the sword by the handle and pulled it out, keeping one hand on him casting magic to close the seeping gash it left behind. Her arms trembled as she tossed the blade aside, what felt like the last of her magicka draining from her and into him.

She put her hand over the blistered skin of his cheek. It wasn't enough. He was hurting. He needed her help.

Andard gritted his teeth and let out a loud groan as she did her best to sooth the pain. Her arms trembled again and she knew that she had nothing left – not a drop anywhere inside. She tried once more, forcing anything out as the night turned pitch-black around her, her breath locking up halfway out of her lungs.

She could do this. She had to. No matter what.

Andard reached out and grabbed her by the wrist. "Please, you don't need to do anything else." He said, moving his hand down to hers. "I'll be fine."

Ysadette curled her fingers in his – both caked in blood and grime – as she leaned over and kissed him, sinking into it until she felt herself going limp.

She let herself fall into the grass so she could curl up beside him and put her head on his chest. His heart beat inside like it wanted out of the madness. But it was beating. By the Eight, it was still beating. And her mind could only swell with the most enchanting three words she knew. "I –"

"I love you," Andard said, taking a shuddering breath as he ran his fingers through her hair. "That's what you were going to say, wasn't it? I wanted to be the first to say it this time." Andard's chest heaved in brittle laughter. "Figured I needed a victory tonight."

Ysadette scrunched up the blood-soaked cloth of his shirt in her fingers, choking down a sob before it could escape. How quickly things had unraveled, how close she'd come to losing him, in only a few minutes. Is that all that separated her from that horrifying world, the one where she woke up without him?

Once, long before she'd confessed her feelings for the first time, she'd imagined herself being more eloquent. She'd dreamed up extravagant scenarios – climactic moments of storybook-like fantasy – when she'd tell him how much he meant to her, catapulting them into the "happily ever after" part that she longed for. Anything less than that would've been a cringe-worthy and blatant waste of an opportunity. But as she lay in the grass with him – both of them beaten, terrified, and exhausted – Ysa knew that there wasn't any other way to say it, not because of lack of vocabulary, but because she _meant_ it. With every fiber of her being and then some. Because he meant it in the same way. That was all that mattered, she figured. "Then I'll let you have your victory," she said, her voice breaking apart. "I love you, too."

As if he'd been given his cue to reappear, Ulpo poked his head out from the bushes where Andard had been hiding to begin with. He rolled across the ground and sprang to his feet, then shuffled over to them. Ulpo put one finger over his lips like he had before they left, his grin peeking out behind it, and dropped onto the ground on the other side of Andard. He latched on and immediately began to snore.

Ysadette wearily sat up and reached over Andard to take Ulpo's hand, connecting the three of them in a daisy-chain. They were all alive. In one piece. A bit battered and beaten but, above all, _together_. That was all she really cared about – all she _could_ care about now that everything else was behind them. She looked down at Andard, expecting his withered half-smirk to be beaming at her, letting her know that this unfamiliar world they'd been propelled into would be set right.

It wasn't there. He didn't look at her. Andard stared unrelentingly at Ulpo, his face smirk-less and twisted by the burns, his hand squeezing until the bones in her fingers ached.

.~~~.

A hand jostled Ysadette's shoulder, digging its bony extremities into her like tiny needles. "Wake up," said a rumbling voice, hoarse like its owner had been eating stones. When she didn't stir, they grunted and shook her again. "I said wake up!"

Ysadette opened her eyes to find darkness – owls hooting and crickets chirping in the woods around her. She must've slept the entire day away, she guessed. Somehow. Curiously, she didn't remember falling asleep. Her neck and back were sore, limbs stiff, and the stranger that had awakened her had their arm around her.

She froze. Who on Nirn was holding her? Better yet, why was she holding onto them? Her eyes flew wide open and Ysadette put her hands on the their chest to push herself up. "I'm sorry!" she said. "I must've fallen asleep! Please, forgive…"

When she saw who she'd been sleeping on, Ysadette's mind scrubbed her thoughts away until there weren't any left.

Ulpo lifted his arm from around her back and put it on his crossed leg, shaking his head. The lines in his face were angled downward into a sizzling frown, his red eyes burning at the other side of the cart and not at her. "I didn't mind," he said in an entirely flattened voice. "You were tired and I wanted you to get some rest."

Ysadette eyed him suspiciously. He wasn't smiling nor was he saying anything strange – nonsensical, rather. "Grandfather, are you feeling like yourself?" she whispered.

Ulpo's grimace seemed to deepen and he exhaled like he wanted he was trying to push his lungs out with the air inside them. "I don't have time to answer every unimportant question you have right now," he said.

Ysa lowered her head. "I'm sorry."

"I wasn't going to wake you," he said, ignoring her entirely, "But I don't have long."

Ysadette listened for any sounds besides the clopping of Chunkyhoof in front of the cart. Nothing. "Is there someone coming for us?"

Ulpo put his finger over his lips and shushed her. "Listen to me carefully," he whispered. "I'm going to leap out of the cart and run off into the woods. Use your magic so you don't lose track of me. I'll stop running when we're far enough away." He didn't look at her, but he sneered as if her lack of immediate response was grating. "Do you understand?"

Ysa nodded her head. "I do, but why can't we just…"

Ulpo shushed her again and pushed her off him. Without further explanation, he leaped out of the back of the cart and disappeared into the woods as he said he would.

"Hey, you old fool!" Barro shouted. "Have you lost your damned mind?"

Ysa scrambled to her feet and followed Ulpo out of the cart. "I'll go get him!" she shouted at Barro. "Wait for us, please! It won't be long!"

"It had better not!" Barro called out. "We haven't even left County Chorrol yet!"

Ysa dashed into the forest, her steps hastened and her vision enhanced by magic. A mass of light with a hole in the center weaved around the trees, moving at a quicker pace than she was capable of. Ulpo. She was sure it was him. He leaped from tree trunk to tree trunk, hooking onto branches and flipping over them as if he weighed nothing. She tried to mimic his path, but simply avoiding every obstacle in her own as she sprinted through the darkened forest was proving difficult enough. If he truly was using the same spells as her, then she did need more practice. A lot more.

Ysadette followed him for several minutes longer, watching closely until the mass of light raised into the sky and stopped. As she caught up to it, the woods thinned around her and spread wide into a clearing.

Ulpo stood atop the grassy hill in the middle, letting the wind rush over him. Flashes of lightning beyond the treetops framed his spindly body against the sky, low rumbles of distant thunder following. His eyes were shut and his head was tilted backwards – crimson light pouring from his chest. In his hands he clutched his beloved fork.

Ysadette climbed the hill, watching him as he stood still like an isolated monolith in an empty field. "Grandfather?" she asked softly as she reached the top of the hill. "Is something the matter?"

Ulpo took in a sharp breath through his nose and opened his eyes to stare at the twin moons in the sky. "I should've been there to help you," he growled. "You shouldn't have had to do it alone."

Ysa set her hand on his arm. A tingling sensation ran up to her shoulder, the lines from the stone in his chest dying out before they could circle around her elbow. "It's not your fault," she said. "Even Chorrol's guards weren't prepared for the attack. There were a few casualties and some damage to the east wall, but the city is still standing. In time, I'm sure they'll recover."

Ulpo's expression changed to something she couldn't place. Surprise, maybe? Now that Ysa thought about it, he'd been shut up in the apothecary with Suleh since they'd left Silverbank Mine and arrived back in town. At least, she assumed he had been. He did know about bandit raid, didn't he?

"Is that what you wanted to tell me?" Ysadette asked, dropping her arm to her side, the tingle receding. "We could've just stayed in the cart, you know. Barro, the driver, knew about the raid before we departed."

The lines of Ulpo's face settled into their burned-in scowl. "Never mind that. That's not why I brought you out here, anyway." He put his hand over the stone in his chest. It shined brighter, lines of red snaking out from it and wrapping around his wrist and arm as they gathered in his palm. Ulpo turned to face her, looking at her for the first time in his state of sanity – scarlet eyes wide open. "I think it's time you and I talk," he said, thunder booming along with his words, matching the tone of his voice. "Long past time."

Lightning curled in the sky, coming closer, trying to reach overhead as if they wanted to join the conversation.

Ysadette noticed his eyes flick away from her again and towards the distant thunderclouds, that hint of fury in him she saw once before climbing to the surface. "Then stop dancing around it," she said, taking his chin in her hand and turning it towards her. Forget the damned thunderstorm and forget whatever it meant to him. She wanted him to look her in the eyes – no – she _demanded_ that he do that much. "When I spoke with Peryite, he told me that you've been keeping secrets from me. Was he telling the truth?"

Ulpo's scowl softened and he gently took her hand away from his face. "He was, unfortunately," he said, looking down at his feet and sighing. "After what you've been through because of me, you deserve to know what's been happening. What will continue happening to me.."

A flash of lightning colored the hill violet, the only color beside it the red of the stone in his chest. "Until the Game is over."


	20. Desperate Measures

20

.~~~.

Mytho swished his broomstick back and forth with the most pride he was able to muster. He'd found that the job was bordering tolerable if he envisioned the curdles of dust on the stone floor of the castle as his sworn enemies. Any less effort and he might find the desire to take that broomstick and use it for irredeemable acts against the chattering nobles and their hapless sycophants tainting County Hall too enticing to ignore.

So, Mytho, the Phantom of Bravil – a swordsman of renown unlike any other in recent memory, who'd stolen into the chambers of flirtatious noblewomen and claimed more than their coin, who'd avoided every kind of dungeon and laughed in the face of death as if it was his morning routine – spent an hour on his hands and knees scrubbing the floor until it was tidy. He had to ask himself what idiot told the Count that stone needed to be scrubbed until it no longer had a speck of dirt on it. If by chance he met the fool, he wouldn't know whether to bury him where no one would find him or raise a toast to his trickery.

Be that as it may, he found that his less-than-ideal position allowed him an unrestricted view into Castle Skingrad – its inhabitants included. So long as none drew too close, he might not have his cover blown. The dirt he'd spent the previous night working into his hair and coating his face with and the pitiful rags he'd put on and called clothing would only throw off the less attentive nobles. Any others would see him for the admittedly charming man that he was.

It wasn't until after the Count and his closest advisors had finished their hours-long breakfast that he finally saw the man. But first, Mytho heard him coming from what he guessed was the other side of the whole damned castle.

"Ilawe!" Count Ris shouted as he stormed into the entry hall. He stopped and patted at his forehead with a cloth to remove the beads of sweat. Mytho wasn't sure why he'd expected a smaller man to hold the title, but it did explain the extended breakfast. Count Ris zeroed in on one of the castle's guards standing in the entry hall. "Where is Ilawe?"

The guard stiffened a salute. "I haven't seen hide nor hair of him since dinner yesterday evening, sire! He mentioned that he wanted to walk the castle grounds for a bit before he returned to his chambers, but nothing else!"

Ris growled and dabbed his forehead again. "We have only two hours before the Court is open for the public! We haven't even read the agenda yet! He's never this late!"

The guard lowered his head. "Forgive me, sire. I could gather a few men and search the castle if that would please you."

The Count's face scrunched up like he'd smelled something foul. Out came the cloth again to dry up some of that squealing sow they called the Count's sweat. "No, that won't be necessary. However, if he decides to grace us _lowly folk_ with his presence at some point during the day, tell him immediately that he –"

"No need for relaying information, _sire_ ," a voice spoke from the entrance of the castle. The grand doors shut behind a leaner man as he strolled into the entry hall. "I've already gone over today's agenda."

Ris shoved the guard aside. "Where have you been, Ilawe?"

Mytho's ears pricked up and he glanced at the newcomer. Black hair, shiny and slicked back against his head, and a pale complexion. There we are. Toren's description was dead-accurate after all. Mytho continued to sweep the floor as if nothing had happened, but kept watch out of the corner of his eye.

Ilawe shrugged. "I was only resting, sire. Please, forgive me. I found myself strolling the grounds last night and went to bed at admittedly too late an hour. I had the shutters drawn and I didn't see the sunrise."

Ris, for once using his size for something other than filling all the empty space in a chair, loomed over him. "Have you gotten lazy, Ilawe? Do you know what happens to lazy men in my Court?"

Ilawe, despite being face to face with a man that could be served his head on a platter, didn't flinch. "Again, I beg for your forgiveness, sire, but that was not the only reason I was late. A few of the servants were having trouble settling a dispute this morning, you see. I simply _had_ to step in before things turned ugly."

Ris tapped his foot, his red face turning redder.

Ilawe seemed to hold in a sigh. "But to answer your question, yes. I am very aware of what happens to those who trespass against you. Especially so considering we've got the fates of two criminals to decide today."

Mytho stopped sweeping. With the way things had been going for Halora, he couldn't take any chances missing what they were talking about.

"Oh?" Ris said, "What were their crimes?"

Ilawe shrugged. "Horse theft and tax evasion. Simple crimes, but both very serious as I'm sure you'll agree."

Mytho began to sweep again, trying not to chuckle. Halora and her drones may have been guilty of both of those things and more, but she would never allow them to be caught and tried on such pitifully tiny scales. It couldn't have been anyone associated with the Guild.

Ris laughed. "Of course, of course! One's stealing from my people and the other's stealing from me!" he said, laughing again. He put one meaty hand on Ilawe's comparatively smaller shoulder. "I suppose you did read the agenda. Consider this just a warning, then. So long as this doesn't happen again, you can consider this small misstep forgotten."

Ilawe pursed his lips. "Thank you, _sire,_ " he said with an amount of defiance in his voice that Mytho had to commend him for. Most would receive a harsher punishment for that than tardiness. "Now, we have a bit of time before the Court opens. Are there any duties you wish for me to take care of before then?"

Ris shook his head. "None in particular. You can use this time however you please. If there's something that you feel ought to be done, go ahead. But I expect you to be by my side again before the peasants start trickling in."

Ilawe bowed his head. "Of course, sire," he said, holding his stance until the Count had waddled his way out of sight, leaving only him and Mytho in the entry hall. When the Count was gone, Ilawe raised his head and scanned the room with his eyes.

Mytho kept his back turned, sweeping the dirty corner he'd worked his way into during their conversation. Still, he could feel Ilawe's suspicious gaze stinging his back.

"You there," Ilawe said, his voice echoing in the empty hall, "What's your name?"

Mytho took a moment to plaster the most ragged expression he knew how to make on his face before turning around. "M'name's Fadus, sir," he said, adopting an accent different than his own.

Ilawe's eyes narrowed at him. His heels clicked on the stone floor as he walked towards him. "I don't recall seeing your face here before. Are you one of the new servants?"

Mytho nodded and wrung his hands. "Oh, yes. I was 'ired a day ago. Put right to work, yes." Mytho dragged a finger across his cheek and showed Ilawe the dirt on it. "Didn't even 'ave time to wash meself. Sorry, sir."

Ilawe's eyes stopped tracing Mytho for a moment and softened. "I see. I'll have to speak with Jena about this," he said, reaching into his pockets and removing a cloth. "In the meantime, take this and clean your face with it. There isn't any need for you to be so filthy."

Mytho grabbed the cloth with both hands and smiled wide. "Oh, bless ye, sir. I don't deserve such kindness!"

Ilawe's face looked peculiar with a smile, doubly so since he kept his lips pressed tightly together as if he were afraid of his tongue leaping out. "Think nothing of it. While the other nobility in the Count's circle may look down on you, I wouldn't dare. I was even in your position once, many years ago before I was promoted to Steward. Without you, this castle would be only as clean as the pigpens outside the city."

Mytho tried not to roll his eyes. More empty words from another empty-headed man with more coin than he could toss away. Toren had mentioned that he was a good man, but it wasn't going to fool Mytho with his pretend smile. His kind always had a way of sounding so damned condescending even when they weren't trying to be. "Yer too kind."

Ilawe nodded and turned to leave.

Mytho, however, had a distinct feeling that the man had never stopped watching him with those peculiar eyes of his. Ilawe was suspicious, no doubt about it. A new face in the castle ought to make him that way. Regardless, there wasn't any need to worry. Mytho knew that he would be in the man's chambers either interrogating him or shutting him up for good long before he could find him out. Feeling that his job was done, Mytho made his way towards the deeper parts of the castle.

From his guess, the servants quarters and by extension Ilawe's would be somewhere in the upper rooms of the castle. The Count had come from the west side of the place, meaning it was likely the servants would be on the same side as well – in addition to the Steward's. They never were more than a shout away. Nobility would leave most wanting in terms of their patience.

Mytho shuffled through the hallways, earning simple nods from the lax guardsmen often heading the other way. It wasn't until he'd passed a helping of doors and ascended a winding staircase that he came to a large chamber with several beds poorly lit by the closed shutters.

 _That'd be for the regular servants,_ he noted. _But Ilawe isn't just any servant._

Mytho continued past the room and towards the end of the hall. When he tried to open the door and found it locked, he didn't try to hide the smirk on his face. If it was Ilawe's room, then he'd have no trouble reaching them in the dead of night. Especially if the handful of guards he passed were all the Count could offer to protect his servants.

 _Then again, he probably needs most of them to cover that broad arse of his._ Mytho dropped the broomstick, snickering to himself as he returned to the servant's quarters.

Light filled the room once he'd thrown open the shutters and climbed over the windowsill. It was grim enough inside that he felt a twinge of regret when he shut them again, but at least he wasn't going to be staying there for long. Mytho wasted no time in getting to the bottom of the wall where a garden awaited him. Getting caught scaling the Count's castle from the inside may not have been a crime written in the books, but he didn't doubt they could come up with a charge anyway. When he dropped into the garden below, he knelt behind an extravagantly cut bush until he was sure there weren't any guards patrolling.

When he was sure it was clear, Mytho entered the castle and proceeded into the entry hall once again. He nodded at the single guardsman still there and threw open the door.

The slope leading away from the castle and back towards the main city of Skingrad was bustling with citizens and travelers alike coming to visit, but he wasn't interested in them in the slightest. Mytho strayed from the beaten path and climbed up the hillside where a tall tree was casting shade in the late-morning sun.

Toren was laying underneath it, arms crossed behind his head.

"Sleeping on the job, lad?" Mytho asked as he approached.

With a snort, Toren sat up straight, raising all the way to his feet. "N-no, sir! I was just trying to act innocent. I'd draw less attention that way."

Mytho nodded. "Uh-huh. Well, it's a good thing to know you won't be able to backstab me, I guess. Your lying is pitiful."

"Fine," Toren said, sighing, "But more importantly, how did it go? Did you find Ilawe?"

"More than that. I had a short conversation with him. He was growing a bit suspicious, I think. But he went on about his way before too long."

"What did he say?" Toren asked.

Mytho waved his hand dismissively. "The usual insincerity his type try to spoon-feed the less fortunate. Talked about how he thinks the servants are important. Gave me his handkerchief like it'd mean something."

"It might, actually. We could sell the silk for coin if it doesn't have any notable embroidery that'd give us away."

Mytho gestured for Toren to follow him back to town. "Smart lad, but we'll get to that later. For now, I've got to prepare. I don't imagine myself running into trouble, but I've unfortunately got too many scars and too much riding on this to bet on imagination."

"When are you thinking of breaking in?" Toren asked.

"I could go tonight, but I've got a bit of business to take care of in the city before I throw it into chaos," Mytho said. "I could use your help in that regard. Do you remember what I said as I left you at the tavern on the other day?"

Toren nodded. "That you wanted information on someone else in town, yes. Although, you haven't given me a name yet."

Mytho removed a scrawled piece of paper from his trouser pocket and gave it to Toren. "This is all I know about the man. It isn't much to go on, but I trust that you can sniff him out, can't you?"

Toren unfolded the paper and read it over. "This is just a name. Anything notable about him you can give me? Hair color? Facial features? Distinctive scars? Something along those lines would help."

Mytho shook his head. "Sorry, lad. That's all I have."

There was a moment that Toren hesitated – a moment long enough for Mytho to worry he'd be turned down – but Toren shoved the note into his pocket and shrugged. "I've managed to find men with less," he said, smirking. "I'll probably need some time to chase leads, though. Do you mind?"

"I ought to be able to wait on breaking into the castle until you've finished that, but don't take too long. I can't stay in this city forever."

"I understand," Toren said. "And about breaking into the castle. You, er, wouldn't need any help with that, would you? A distraction, maybe?"

Mytho placed his hand on Toren's shoulder. "I'd rather you focus on finding this man here. Besides, I don't intend on making a stir until it's time to escape. By then, I hope you'll be making yourself scarce. You may have learned how to hold that blade of yours, but I think you're a bit too inexperienced to test yourself in a life or death situation."

Toren looked a bit disappointed, but he still nodded.

It was a good thing that he did. Having that taken care of was one bit of business that Mytho wished he had the time for.

As they walked down the hillside and back towards the city, Mytho listened in on the local gossip. Most of it was useless chatter, but he'd always made it a point to keep himself in the know. Even with a route to Ilawe planned, he knew not to pin all his hopes on a single lead, not when the girl and her teacher had managed to shake the Dominion off their trail.

When he and Toren were only a few steps away from the city gates, a conversation between two women sitting on a bench on the roadside forced him to stop and listen.

"Did you hear about what happened in High Town last night?" the first asked.

"What? Did one of the rich folk have too much wine and run across town in the nude again?" the second said, giggling at her own joke.

The first shook her head. "No, a woman was attacked! Almost killed!"

"Oh," the second said dumbly.

"Yeah, the guards found her bleeding in the street," the first said. "Said she was delirious! Started begging them to find her jewelry before she collapsed! Then they took her to the Chapel so the priestesses could heal her."

"She should've known it was dangerous to go out at night," the second said, apparently lacking empathy. "Besides, it's not been safe in a long time. I'll bet it was the Thieves Guild trying to kill her. Probably getting desperate to steal things now that the Vigilante's got them outmatched."

"That's just it, though!" the first said. "It's just a rumor, but some of the guards seem to think she might be _involved_ with the Thieves Guild! They haven't gotten any proof of it yet, but I think it makes sense. Doesn't it? I mean, why else would she be out at night by herself if she weren't up to no good?"

Mytho stopped cold. _No, she wouldn't do that. She's too careful._

The second woman leaned back on her palms. "Well, shame on her then," she said. "Was it one of their cats? The Khajiit? I've heard all of them are part of the Thieves Guild. Like that one that the Vigilante killed."

The first shook her head. "No. According to what I've heard, she's a Redguard."

Mytho couldn't stand to listen to their chattering any longer. He shoved his way through the crowd.

"Sir?" Toren called out as Mytho hurried away. "Where are you going? Sir!"

Mytho ignored him and continued to push his way into the crowd.

 _I knew you were desperate, Hallie. Just not that desperate._

.~~~.

Mytho counted himself fortunate that the guards, despite being on high alert after last night's events, seemed to be preoccupied with their investigation. Too much to note that he'd circled around the street the where the supposed robbery had taken place several times, anyway. What wasn't quite so fortunate is that they blocked off a considerable chunk of High Town to do it, leaving him without the cover of other bodies. If it weren't for the bowmen he'd noticed peeking over the edges of the buildings, he'd have taken to the rooftops to get a better view. As it were, he wasn't a big enough fool to stroll up behind them, even if he did have a bit of confidence that told him he'd be able to masquerade as an envoy from Castle Skingrad.

From what he'd gathered from peeking through the crowd, the first thing on their minds was cleaning up the mess. The red trail and subsequent splatter seemed to be giving them a spot of trouble, however.

Mytho smirked. Being difficult was part of her nature, apparently going so far as to run in her veins as well. All the more reason to hurry to the Chapel, he figured. Her drones would be coming soon to spring her from her "captivity," but he'd be damned if he let them spirit her away before he'd had his turn with her.

When he entered the Chapel, a young priestess sitting just inside looked at him. Her expression conveyed suspicion with a raised eyebrow. "May I help you?" she asked before turning her attention back to the book of hymns she had in her lap.

"I'm here to see the woman that was brought here last night," Mytho said. "You know her, the one that was – " he gulped down a lump he'd purposely exaggerated, " _Attacked._ "

With a sigh, the priestess shut the book and shook her head. "Sir, I'm sorry. Unless you're with the Castle Guard and assigned to help with the investigation, I cannot allow you to see her. I'm not at liberty to divulge any details, as I've been informed. You'll simply have to wait until she's released from the Chapel if you wish to speak with her." The priestess shooed him away with her hand and reached for another book lying next to the hymns.

"Please," Mytho said, reaching out and catching her hand. He squeezed it and looked deep into her eyes when they met his. "She's my wife."

The priestesses' mouth dropped open. "Oh, my!" she said as she hurriedly stood up from her chair. "Forgive me! I had no idea! My word, you must have been worried sick! Come with me!"

Mytho forced his lips to be straight so she wouldn't see his smile. A bit easier than he expected, but he wasn't about to complain.

The priestess motioned for him to follow as she scurried away to the lower levels of the Chapel. "She was unconscious by the time the guards were able to get here. Apparently, some man the guards haven't been able to identify tried to rob her as she was walking in the High Town district last night."

Mytho shook his head. Robbed. That was a good one. If only the lass knew who she was dealing with. "I told her this would happen one day. If only she'd listened to me!"

The priestess nodded. "Please, don't be hard on her. You should be proud. Judging by the wounds she received, she didn't take the beating without giving one in return."

"That's my wife! Always giving back what she gets. They'll think twice about robbing her again."

The priestess stopped at a door and placed her hand on the knob. "A word of advice before we go in. I understand that you may be feeling overwhelmed, but please do be careful. She's still recovering from her wounds."

Mytho nodded and did his best to appear teary-eyed. "Yes. Yes, I'll try my best."

The priestess laid her hand on his arm, a smile so sweet Mytho nearly felt bad playing her for a fool curling the corners of her lips. "She's a strong woman, sir. I have no doubts that she'll make a full recovery."

Mytho nodded and choked back a sob. "The strongest I've ever known. The Divines blessed me more than I deserve with her."

The priestesses cheeks turned pink, her smile wide as it could be. She tapped her knuckles against the door. "Ma'am, there's someone here to see you," she sang. "Your husband!"

There were a few passing moments of silence that Mytho feared would unravel his falsehood. She always did enjoy making him squirm from time to time. Finally, he heard a long sigh from the other side of the door. "Come in!" Halora called out.

Mytho took a deep breath as the door opened. Time to sell it. The moment the priestess was safely out of the way, he let out a shout and rushed to Halora's side. "Oh, thank the Divines! I was afraid I'd lost you!" he cried as he threw his arms around her.

"I'm fine, d- _darling_ ," Halora said with a strange enunciation on the word. She carefully wrapped her arms around him and ran her hand along across his back. "I'm _so_ sorry that I worried you."

"Please, promise me that you won't ever do this to me again!"

Halora shushed him and buried her face in the crook of his neck. "You don't need to worry anymore. I'm just fine."

The priestess cleared her throat loudly. "I'll, er…give you two a few moments to yourselves."

Mytho continued to quietly sob, forcing his body to shake as to appear wracked with emotion until he heard the door click behind him.

"She's gone," Halora whispered in his ear and patted him on the back. "Now let go of me. You're filthy."

"But darling!" Mytho said in an exaggerated tone, "I-I almost lost you!"

Halora stuck her arms straight out and shoved him away. "Stop that! What in the name of Nocturnal did you come here for, anyway?"

"To figure out what exactly it is that's going through your head," he said, sitting on the side of the bed. "Have you taken leave of your senses, love?"

Halora squared her jaw and glared at him. "Oh, so that's it? You're here to lecture me? That's rich."

"If it'd wake you up from whatever nonsensical world you've lost yourself in, then yes," Mytho said. "You went after that Vigilante last night, didn't you?"

Halora folded her arms, a flicker of pain in her face. "I don't have to justify myself to you. In case you've forgotten, you're only walking free in this city because I'm allowing it. If I wanted you out, all I'd need to do is snap my fingers and point where I wanted you to be dragged off to."

Mytho sighed. "I'm not here to encroach on your territory and I'm not trying to tell you how you should do whatever it is you intend on doing. I don't have any interest in trying to start a war with you and your people, Hallie, but –"

"But what?" Halora asked. "You can drop the worried husband act now. It's starting to make you look silly. You aren't worried and you aren't my husband."

"I know that. What I don't know is why you went up against that man alone." He glanced over at her and winced. Bandages peeked out from underneath the dingy gown they'd dressed her in, wrapping around her shoulder and covering her chest. It wasn't a simple surface wound, she'd been cut deep. If it were, the priestesses would've healed her and sent her home on the same night. "And it looks to me like he had the advantage."

Halora placed her hand over her chest and winced. "It'll just be another scar, I'm sure. Nothing I can't handle."

"You're taking the arse-kicking rather well. He could've killed you if he wanted."

Halora waved her hand. "But he didn't want to. Every wound he left on me was for the sake of delivering a message. He wanted to make me and the rest of the Guild fear him."

Mytho shifted uncomfortably. "And?"

Halora's laugh was mirthless. "And nothing. He'll have to try much harder than that to scare me. He's gone back to his hole believing he's done worse to me than I've had done before, and he's dead wrong. I guess I'll count myself lucky that he aimed for my front, too. I was running out of room on my back."

Mytho took a deep breath. He'd seen the lines carved into her enough times he couldn't forget them if he tried. And by the gods, did he try. "So what did you get out of this besides an unexpected day of vacation?"

Halora reached into the nightstand beside her bed and removed a ring. "I stole this from him," she said as she handed it to Mytho. "It was hanging around his neck."

Mytho held it close to his eyes and squinted. It was pure silver. Intricate markings wound around the surface of the metal in a flower-like pattern and led to the gemstone, an emerald acting as the bloom. "It's beautiful. I've never seen anything like it."

"I haven't either," Halora said. "I can say with certainty that it holds sentimental value to him, though. When he noticed I'd cut it off, he flew into a rage."

"I'd be rather angry if I lost something so valuable as well," Mytho said with a laugh. "Damned thing's probably worth a small fortune. You'd think he'd be more careful. "

"Or more attentive," Halora added. "He didn't even see it in the street and I found it while I was bleeding out. I'm not going to complain, though. It made my job that much easier."

Mytho ran his thumb over the ring. "I'm glad to see that your pride hasn't taken a hit, but why are you showing me this? To gloat?"

"Because…" she trailed off. "Because I want you to take it back to Luciros. He knows a good bit about everything – jewelry especially – and he may be able to put a name to the craftsman."

Mytho dropped the ring into his pocket and leaned back. "Last I checked, you didn't want my help."

"Truthfully, I don't," she said, "But I'm not an idiot. He outright declared war on the Guild last night. I wanted more time to work out a plan with the Shadowfoots, but it seems like that luxury isn't going to be afforded to me."

"So? I'm all ears. What have you come up with?"

Halora's balled her hands into fists. "As much as I hate, _hate_ your scheme, I don't have a viable alternative available at the moment. If there were any other way, I'd take it. But there just isn't time to wait any longer. I can put the Guild on lockdown for a little while, but every day I wait to act, our entire operation is brought closer to being undone."

"And when you've got to decide what to do with him?" Mytho asked, "How do you intend on rationalizing that to the rest of your mates?"

"Killing has always been permitted in the Guild so long as it was an act of self-defense. You know that."

"Of course I do," he said. "Will Skingrad see it that way, though?"

Halora shrugged. "I doubt it. When the people realize we've struck down an active threat to our operation, they'll likely petition County Hall for more patrols. Which, unless the Count wants a citywide panic on his hands, he'll agree to."

"He does seem to be the malleable type," Mytho said. "I saw him earlier while I was in the castle. Ilawe, the Steward I told you I was after, seems to have run of the place, actually. Talked the Count down with barely more than a sentence."

"You're ready to make your move, then?"

"Not quite," Mytho said. "I've sent Toren to search the city for a man my conversation with is long overdue. Whenever he returns with a face and a location, I'll be ready. Not a moment before. I figure it'll be more than a day, at least."

Halora's eyes narrowed severely, yet she said nothing. It was her knowing silence, though, that made him uncomfortable. "Another outlier related to this job of yours? Someone with loose lips, perhaps?"

"It's personal," Mytho said.

Her face tightened. "Really? Well, if you wanted information then you could've come to me for it. Why have you suddenly taken an interest in Toren, anyway?"

Mytho shrugged. "Lad's got potential, I suppose. I thought I might give him a leg up on the other vagrants when it's time to fight over scraps of food."

Halora's expression didn't change.

"Just as you don't need to justify yourself to me, I don't need to justify myself to you," Mytho said. "See how that works, love?"

"Fine. I won't press any further," she said, putting her hand to her forehead. In the few seconds it took for her to take a deep breath, she seemed to grow older, her cheeks looking gaunt.

Mytho wasn't sure if it was the lighting in the room that made her look pale when he'd walked in, but now he could tell how worn she looked. "You know, this isn't like you. You're too clever and far too experienced to be beaten so easily. What aren't you telling me about last night?"

Halora continued to rub her forehead. "Nothing. I've told you all that you ought to know."

"The way you're acting says otherwise," Mytho said. "You look like a mess, Hallie."

"It could be because I almost died last night," she snapped. "Did you consider that?"

Mytho frowned. "If only you could dodge a blade as well as you can dodge my questions, you might not have."

Halora's hand fell to her lap and she glared at him. "Don't think for a moment that I'm weak because of this. He happened to have the element of surprise on his side whereas I didn't."

"That's why I'm asking," Mytho said. "I know that you aren't weak. But if you want my help then I need to know why you weren't as strong as him."

Halora took another deep breath, looking paler before a degree of healthy color returned to her face. "I don't know, really. I wish I did. He hit fast and he hit harder than anyone I've ever had the displeasure of facing. He was wearing a cloak so I couldn't tell if it was due to his muscles or something else I don't know about. He's tall if nothing else. About the same height as you."

"How did he carry himself?"

"As if the city was his own. He knew his way around if the manner in which he found me is any indication. He's almost certainly been here at some point in his life. I believe he may even be a native."

"How do you figure?" he asked.

Halora motioned to her mouth. "His accent," she said. "Colovian. He was born and raised west of the Imperial City."

Mytho took the ring out and held it between his fingers. "I see. And this ring may tell us where if it isn't right here in Skingrad. If we can find the smith, that is. Anything else about him?"

Halora dropped her gaze to her lap and clenched her fists tighter than they already were. "The way he fights isn't natural. He moves around as if he isn't even there, riding on the winds and calling them whenever he pleases. And somehow he shrugged off being stabbed in the chest several times."

Mytho leaned back and ran his hand along his chin. "That _is_ strange. Not unheard of, but strange."

"He's definitely using magic," Halora said. "I'm not sure what kind but there isn't any other explanation for it."

"Did he use any on you?"

Halora shook her head. "No. I don't think he did, at least." She paused after finishing her sentence to gnaw on her lip. "Or maybe he did. Before he dropped me from the building, I started feeling weaker. I thought it may have been blood loss causing it, but it happened too quickly."

"Could it be poison?" he asked.

Halora stopped and tapped her knee, her lips puckering as she mulled over the possibility. "If it is, then it must be slow acting given that I haven't keeled over yet. I suppose it would make sense, considering his reason for letting me live. He could send me back to the Guild to sow his little seeds of fear, then a few days later I'd be found dead. It'd be clean and effective. Either way, when you get to the shop, tell Luciros to mix a general antidote just in case. Make sure to let him know that there isn't any reason to worry. He may not look it, but he's got a habit of obsessing over his guildmate's well-being. Mine especially."

Mytho looked at the ring once again, admiring the intricacy put into such a small piece. It was Halora's treasure now, though, and by extension the Guild's. Not his. Maybe he could get it as payment for involving himself in her business if he played along. Mytho tossed the ring around as he walked towards the door, stopping just before he left. "Is that all you want to tell me before I leave you to simmer and seethe, love?"

"Don't drag your feet doing this," Halora said, dragging her hand down her face and massaging her cheekbones, the color draining from her face again, "And don't make me regret trusting you, _love_."


	21. Blinded Eyes

21

.~~~.

Mytho leaned against the wall, yawning so wide he wondered if his jaw would detach itself and fall on the floor. For more than a few hours, he was sure, he'd watched the tufts of dust in the corners of the Thieves Guild's false shop, going so far as to name them after the long-deceased fishes he'd kept in water bowls over the years, and still he found that nothing could keep his mind from wandering to awfully mischievous places. His legs wanted to move, to run, wherever that would take him or do anything that meant they wouldn't be rooted to the ground any longer. For a while, he held onto the slim chance he'd work a groove into the wall with his shoulder and find a bit of welcome luxury to make his heel-achingly long stay tolerable.

He didn't find a groove and he was sure he hadn't made much progress in forcing one into the wall. If only Luciros would leave him for a moment, Mytho would've fixed that with a few strikes from the handle of his blades.

Of course, the lad didn't move. The pile of books on the counter in front of him and the quill in his hand clearly had the ability to hold his attention for a frighteningly long time. Once every now and then, Luciros would give a cursory glance at Mytho, his dull, expressionless face never twitching in the least unless he sniffed, and then return to his writing.

Mytho knew he was being watched. It was obvious, really. Over the years, he'd gained the uncanny ability to know when eyes were on him, especially if they weren't the friendly sort. If it wasn't the odd glances he was given from the people coming in and out of the shop who were surely Guild members in disguise, it was the fact he wasn't allowed to move even a step away from the spot he was standing in. He was well aware that the Thieves Guild wasn't fond of him, an opinion he didn't find _entirely_ unjustified, but half the prisons he'd been in and out of offered him a chair, at least. Granted, they'd chained him to it and dunked him upside down in a pool of water, but a chair nonetheless. Even then, that sort of torture paled in comparison to the one thing he feared above all else in life.

Boredom. Maddening, seemingly endless boredom. At least the dunking had a feasible ending; either their arms would get tired of holding him up or they would grow tired of getting spat on every time they hoisted him back up. Waiting around in silence in a place that didn't want him for news that likely wouldn't be worth much seemed to last for an eternity.

The Thieves Guild must've added getting under his skin to their repertoire of skills. If it weren't for the fact that he knew who'd taught the lad about thievery and Doyen duty, he'd wonder how he knew to do it so effectively. "So, uh…" Mytho said, trailing off and scratching at the base of his neck, "Luciros, was it?"

Luciros looked him over and returned his attention to the ring and book in a single flick of his eyes. "Yes."

"Hallie seems to trust you quite a bit."

"I suppose," he said curtly, dipping the quill into the inkwell and punctuating his thought with the sound of scratching on paper.

"If you don't mind my asking, how is it that you got involved with the Guild?"

Luciros turned the ring over in his palm, craning his neck at the book as his finger traced over the text. "I don't see how that's relevant to the business at hand."

Mytho shrugged. "It isn't. I'm beginning to find the idea of collapsing into a coma more enticing than standing here in silence any longer, as you haven't even given me a chair to sit in, I figured the least you could do is talk a bit so I don't nod off and hurt these old bones of mine when I hit the ground."

Luciros reached underneath the counter and hefted a small sack in his arm. "The floor awaits your caress, _Phantom_ ," he deadpanned, tossing the sack at Mytho's feet.

"Smart mouth on you, too, eh?" Mytho said, lowering himself to the floor and putting the sack between his head and the wall. "Hallie teach you that or were you an arse from the beginning?"

Luciros didn't break his flat expression for a second as he wrote. "Madam Doyen has taught me many things, yes. One of her most important lessons was how to hide my disdain for another party no matter how much it pains me to do so."

Mytho lowered his chin and chuckled. "That lesson seems to have flown over your head, lad. You might wear a face as boring as the bricks of this building, but aren't doing a very good job of hiding your animosity."

The quill stopped wiggling and Luciros glanced up, his eyes narrowed into slits. "That's because I'm not trying to. You don't seem to be a naïve man so I'm sure you've taken notice of the fact that you aren't welcome here. Not anymore. And in the event that you are unaware of that fact, I'd relish in the opportunity to be the first to inform you."

"Easy there. You might break my heart with that kind of talk."

Luciros shook his head and sighed as he returned to his writing. "I'm afraid your sarcasm means even less to me than your comfort," he said, flipping to another page. "Especially in light of what you did personally to Madam Doyen."

Mytho nodded and watched him closely as he flipped through another few pages in silence. "So that's it, then. How much did she tell you about us?"

Luciros shook his head. "It probably isn't my place to act as your go-between. Your private business is just that; yours. How you two resolve your issues isn't anything I have the right to involve myself with."

"Oh, so you'd rather just jab at me then run away with your tail between your legs when I decide I'd like to hear what kind of person she's made me out to be?"

Luciros' mouth stretched to the sides of his thin face, pressing his lips flat and thin. "Everything, then. She told me everything. How you were once part of the Guild many years before I joined. How you both decided to settle down for a while at her estate in Aleswell. How the two of you pretended to be a normal sort of people for Miss Aressia's sake despite your attempts at it being markedly pathetic."

"Surprise she let any of _that_ slip out," Mytho said. "Imagining her acting like a mother hen must make that frigid demeanor she puts on for you all seem a little less believable, eh?"

"Perhaps I'm simply ill-informed, but I don't see how the two require exclusivity," he said. "For the short time she was in my life, my mother was as stern as she was nurturing. That is to say, the thought of Madam Doyen employing them as needed isn't as far-fetched to me as it seems to be to you."

Luciros held the ring next to a picture in the book. His eyebrows raised surprise at whatever he had read. "She also told me how living a simple life wasn't enough for you. How you wanted more, how you've _always_ wanted more, which means you've gone through life treating people like passing fancies, including her and Miss Aressia. Judging by the way you returned here and immediately involved yourself with our matters for your own gain, the years have done little to change you in that regard."

Mytho rolled his eyes. There it was, the inevitable condemnation. "Aye, but you do know she's got a way of painting me as the villain, don't you? If it were up to her, she'd have convinced the whole Empire that I caused the Great War. And let me guess; she told you all about Aldor, too?"

"Absolutely not. I learned of the previous Guildmaster's fate from the others," Luciros said. "It's common knowledge among the Guild what you did. And if you think for a moment that any of us will simply sweep that under the rug and forget about it, you're wrong. Dead wrong."

"Aye, you've all got lists of everyone that's ever wronged you, your family, your friends, their family, and the spider that lives in corner of their house, too."

Luciros shut one book and turned his attention to another. "I suppose it's because we understand that our greatest strength lies in our numbers. And anyone desperate enough to find themselves alone will someday be granted that very wish."

"More like you create liabilities," Mytho said with a huff.

Luciros set the ring and quill on the counter again, a slight glare in his eyes. "I suppose that's your reason for leaving her behind, then? Oh, forgive me. You've done that to more than one person on more than one occasion. I ought to specify which instance I mean. Why you left Madam Doyen to rot in that prison and couldn't be bothered to free her for six months?"

Heat flickered in Mytho's stomach, rising quickly to his face and making him press his chin to his collar like it would keep it down. "Told you about that, too? Doesn't she know about keeping anything private?"

"Believe me, I didn't intend to find out," Luciros said, his voice low. "One night she was supposed to be paying a visit to a winery just down the way while I waited for her return. At some point, though, something must've gone awry as she found herself soaked and smelling of fermented grapes. Needless to say, she returned to the Guild early and planned to retire for the night but without properly alerting me first. When I heard a noise coming from the bedroom upstairs, I did what any sensible person would've done and went to investigate the cause. But as I opened the door, Madam Doyen was there and I, er…" He fell silent and fixed his gaze on the counter.

"Got an eyeful?"

Luciros made a face, barely a hint of red flushing his cheeks. "Saw the scars on her back. And nothing more, mind you. However, I was still only a young man of seventeen at the time so I wasn't thinking clearly. The first thing that came out of my mouth wasn't a concise apology, but a question as to where they had come from."

"And?"

Luciros shrugged. "And to my surprise, she told me exactly that. Not a word minced, unfortunately. After she made me stand outside the room so she could finish changing her clothes, of course."

"I didn't abandon her, for your information," Mytho said. "Some, uh, things happened and I wasn't in the right place at the right time."

Luciros raised an eyebrow and didn't speak, but it was his continued silence that decided to talk for him.

"Look, she has a habit of making things out to be simpler than they actually were," Mytho said. "I don't expect you to believe me but there was a lot more to Aldor than any of the old cut-purses in your Guild are willing to admit."

Luciros stopped flipping through the pages of his books and for the first time, a hint of a smirk spread across his face. "Your floundering over excuses suggest that you feel rather ashamed over whatever not-so-simple event that happened. What a surprise. Madam Doyen told me the gods forgot to instill such a thing in your heart. Or did you learn how to smother it when you murdered our former Guildmaster in his sleep?"

"Nice try, lad," he said, chuckling insincerely. "You aren't getting a rise out of me. Aldor was wide awake. I made sure the traitorous bastard knew I was coming for him."

Luciros shrugged again and returned to his books. "It wasn't my intention to get a rise out of you but I can already tell this conversation isn't going anywhere."

"Then why did you bother bringing all this up?"

"I imagine that when the two of you speak she's busy asking herself that question as well," he said, sighing. "You did say you were bored, though, didn't you? You can consider our conversation your entertainment if you wish."

Mytho leaned back against the wall. Besides Toren, it seemed like everyone in the whole city was against him. Not that he was caught off-guard by the feeling. There were probably more places in Tamriel that wanted his head than ones that didn't. As much as he was loath to admit it, the thought of having her turning against him felt different than having the rest of the world do so. It didn't quite sting but it was damned close.

"Anyway," Luciros said, exhaling loudly as he shut the remaining open books and set his quill aside. He folded the sheet of paper he'd been writing on, stamped it with a wax seal and stuck it out towards Mytho expectantly. "My eyes are beginning to gloss over and I believe I've done all that I can do. I've jotted down all my findings in this."

Mytho took the letter and immediately got to work on the seal.

"Please, don't open it," Luciros said, sighing as he handed him the ring as well. "If you're that eager to read what I've written, you could take it to Madam Doyen. Perhaps she'll deign to tell you. Among other things. Oh, and take this, too." Luciros reached underneath the counter and retrieved a small vial. "It's that antidote she asked for."

Mytho took the little bottle from his hands. "Mix this while I wasn't looking?"

"I always keep a wide variety of alchemical mixtures on hand," he said, standing up from his chair and walking away from the counter. "With the way things have been going, it doesn't hurt to be prepared for any ailment."

Mytho started the leave the shop, putting everything he'd been given into his coat for safe-keeping when he caught Luciros making a different expression out of the corner of his eye.

"What did you mean when you said there was more to Aldor?" he asked.

Mytho nodded. He figured he'd take the bait. "What I meant is that it didn't seem like a day had passed after Hallie was tossed in prison when Aldor bought some plush mansion in the countryside and set himself up in it like a king," he said. "Instead of asking why I supposedly left her there for six months, you ought to be asking yourself why the Guildmaster was busy getting fat and happy and couldn't be bothered to organize a jailbreak for his second-in-command." As he opened the door and looked back, he noted the grim expression of Luciros' face, feeling rather accomplished at the sight. "And when you're done figuring that out, you can ask yourself what liabilities you've created by blindly trusting everyone around you."

.~~~.

As if life wished to punish him with bitter irony, all that awaited Mytho after his short stroll over to the Chapel was more sitting around, more boredom, like he didn't have any pressing matters to attend to. Halora hadn't done much to ease that horrible feeling, either. The moment she had the letter in her hands, she gestured to the chair across the room from her without a word and fell silent, her eyes never once straying from the page. He watched as her expression rolled from deadly serious to bewildered, to outright suspicious of whatever it was she was reading, offering up small hums and smothered chuckles that tortured his imagination.

By the time the sun had begun to set, he'd traced over every line in the cracked ceiling of the Chapel undercroft and then some. It wasn't as if he wanted to that but it was far better than letting himself question what it was Luciros had hoped to gain out of their conversation.

Halora set the letter in her lap and held the ring up close to her eye, squinting at it and taking in every detail. "That settles it, then," she murmured.

"Ready to tell me what I've been sitting on my arse all day for?" Mytho asked, springing from the chair and onto his feet.

"That depends. How much do you care for Skingrad history?" Halora scooted to the side and gestured to the open side of the little bed.

Mytho leaped onto the bed, bouncing them both as he put his feet up and folded his hands behind his head. "I suppose I could make myself comfortable in case you start to ramble."

Halora grumbled a word under her breath and gave him the ring. "Do you see that little engraving on the inside? The hammer and the tongs?"

He held it up to the light and nodded.

"That there is the smith's signature," she said. "Agnete the Pickled was her name. Her forge, simply named The Hammer and Tongs, was based here in Skingrad."

Mytho lowered the ring and raised an eyebrow at her. "Was?"

"About two hundred years ago, yes. During the years leading up to the Oblivion Crisis and at the dawn of the Fourth Era. At the time, she was one of the most renowned blacksmiths in all of Cyrodiil, even garnering the attention of high-ranking nobility such as Counts and Countesses."

He tossed the ring high into the air, readying himself to catch it. "Then this would be an antique?"

Halora reached out and took it back, frowning severely. "Exactly. Which means you should stop throwing it around as if it were a stone you picked up on the side of the road. This ring isn't _just_ an antique, either. If what Luciros discovered is true, this ring is part of a pair that once belonged to the Hassildor family."

"Ah," Mytho said, "The good Count and Countess from all those years ago. I've heard the name before. Haven't had a good pair of rulers since then, if public opinion's anything to go off of."

"The people can be fickle about who they love, but most never were about the Hassildors," she said. "Their rule lasted longer than most, became less direct than any due to the Count's reclusive tendencies, and yet the citizens didn't seem to be bothered by it at the time. The two did manage to keep the city in one piece when an Oblivion Gate opened nearby, after all."

"Which of the two did the ring belong to?"

"The Countess, Rona," she stated. "It was her wedding band, actually."

Mytho put his arm over the headboard and tapped her on the shoulder opposite of him. "So?"

Halora's eyes flicked towards him indifferently. "So, what?"

"Is that it? Just an old wedding ring that belonged to a woman who's been dead two and a half lifetimes over? No extra clues or pieces of knowledge you'd like to tell me?"

Whatever expression Halora meant to make was suppressed under a tight grimace and a long exhale. "No, that's not all because now I have even more questions than I did before. If this ring truly did belong to Rona Hassildor, why did the Vigilante have it around his neck? Or perhaps the better question is how in the name of Nocturnal he found it in the first place."

"You're losing me again, love," Mytho said, nudging her in the side.

Halora hunched over, ignoring him as she stared intently at the ring. "The damned thing has been considered lost for good for quite a while now. The Castle claimed they had no idea what Janus, the Count, did with it and the Thieves Guild has been searching for it ever since. About twenty years ago, we decided to strike it from the records and give up our search, believing it had likely been destroyed at some point."

Mytho sucked in a sharp breath with his teeth gritted. "Must sting, then, to have some faceless nobody handing you your arses _and_ finding what generations of you couldn't."

Halora straightened up and glared at him. "A bit, yes, but that isn't what matters right now. What I'm more concerned with is whether or not the theory that Luciros wrote in the letter has any credibility or not."

Mytho slumped down and folded his arms over his face. "More history, I'm sure."

"You're close," she said. "Conspiracy theories about major historical figures, albeit some with a little more credence than the one suggesting Saint Caelum entered a portal in Niben Bay and never returned."

"Never heard that one," Mytho said. "Makes you wonder why everybody has to make up something so fantastical about him, doesn't it? Wouldn't it seem more likely that the man up and vanished because he wanted to live the rest of his life in peace?"

"Perhaps. The theory Luciros wrote out for me is somewhat similar to your line of thinking on that matter so I'm glad you made that point," she said, waving the letter at him. "Both would've done well to become reclusive and would've likely found simpler lives that way. The key difference between them is that Saint Caelum would've been hounded by scores of people eager to meet the Hero of Kvatch. Ultimately, he would've been loved, no matter what. For the Hassildors, however, it would've been quite the opposite if people discovered the truth. Instead of loved, they'd have been hated, if not outright killed."

"That's a bit different than the rosy notion we had of them a minute ago."

"Very," she said. "As beloved as the Hassildor family was by the people in Skingrad, their rule wasn't as squeaky-clean as the Castle records would have you believe. They were dogged by scandals and rumors throughout their reign, Janus more so than Rona. One of the most prevalent tried to explain why the two had suddenly withdrawn from the public eye, the very same Luciros seems to agree with. According to the theory, they were at some point during their reign infected with Porphyric Hemophilia, colloquially known as…"

"Vampirism," Mytho interrupted. "I've heard of it. So the Hassildors were vampires?"

Halora shrugged. "Maybe. Maybe they weren't. However, the last scandal of their reign all but confirmed the theory in some people's eyes when a group of Vigilants of Stendarr rode into the city and went straight into the Castle. As they came back out, it was plain to see that Janus was the sole figure in their custody. Some believed it was because the Count's involvement with sorcery while others believed it was related to the sudden death of the Countess a few months prior. Unfortunately, the Vigil wasn't interested in explaining their reasons for the arrest, not even back then. Needless to say, the Castle was thrown into chaos and the people weren't happy that the Count was deposed without proper reason."

"What did they end up doing with him?"

Halora pursed her lips. "Actually, they didn't get the chance to do anything. About halfway to the Imperial City, the party was ambushed, every last one of them killed before they could draw their weapons. When the search party discovered their remains a few days after they were originally due to arrive, there was only one body that wasn't anywhere to be found."

"The Count's?"

Halora nodded. "The Vigil never made an official statement on the matter, probably didn't want people thinking they were incompetent so soon after forming, but as far as most theorists were concerned, the evidence was rather damning. I'm not one for mindless gossip, even less so when it's two hundred years old, but even I'll admit that it lines up rather conveniently."

Mytho shot a glance at her. "Then what's the point of Luciros' theory? That the Vigilante is somehow the Count come home after all these years?"

Halora's shoulders went rigid, but she nodded. "I suppose it would make sense in perspective. Vampirism halts aging so it wouldn't be out of the question for him to still be alive all this time. Extrapolating further, the reason the ring couldn't be found because it was never lost in the first place, his insistence on protecting the city is because he swore to do so until death, meaning he hasn't yet been released from his duty, and, given the fact that his vampirism would be incredibly advanced after so long, it's no wonder I couldn't do much to harm him. It would also explain why he's never sought us out during the day and only after dark."

She folded her lips between her fingers and hunched over, scowling. "And how he managed to kill Dahlin-Dar without a struggle. If only I'd had silver at the time, I could've tested it on him. Then I'd have all the confirmation I need. Unless…" Halora trailed off, her eyes lighting up in excitement as she turned towards Mytho.

"Unless that's why he wore the ring around his neck instead of on his finger," he said. "Since it's silver, it'd be a problem if it were up against his skin. If he wore it on a string like a necklace and hung it outside his clothes, though, it couldn't burn him." He crossed his arms and looked to the ceiling as if it had answers. "But that still doesn't answer how he couldn't find it lying in the street. Do you have any theories on that?"

The bubbling excitement in her face vanished as quickly as it had surfaced. "No, unfortunately. I don't know much else about the disease thanks to the Vigil and their insistence on destroying as much information about it as they can. At the very least, it has to be something Daedric. Otherwise, they'd have left it alone."

"What about descendants? Think it's possible the Vigilante could be one of them and not the Count himself?"

"I doubt it," Halora said, sighing. "Rona was infamously barren. The two didn't have anyone to survive them and continue their legacy, not even in the adoptive sense. Whether that was related to the vampirism or not I can't say."

Mytho pushed her hair out of the way, looking her over for marks and seeing nothing other than the same elegant neck he'd seen a hundred times before. "He didn't bite you anywhere, did he?"

Halora breathed out a haughty laugh. "I think I'd remember if he stopped our little duel to sink his teeth into me."

"Are there any other ways of being infected?" Mytho set her hair back the way it was, catching enough of the fruity aroma lingering on her to almost make him forget the question.

"I'm not sure," she said after an extended pause. "I've only heard of being turned by a bite."

"We'll conduct a small test, then," Mytho said as he popped the buttons on his coat and tugged it open across his chest. "Do I look tasty to you? Enough for a quick nibble?"

Halora's eyes rolled in their sockets. "That antidote Luciros sent over might've made me light-headed, but I'm not drunk."

"I'll take that as a strong 'maybe,'" Mytho said, chuckling as he stood up. He closed the buttons once again and walked across the room to collect his swords. "So, all theorizing considered, do we think the Vigilante is Janus Hassildor or not?"

"I suppose it's the strongest clue we have at the moment," Halora said. "For now, we'll assume that it's him and do our planning around that. I'd suggest we keep our eyes open for any other twists, though. You and I both have been doing this sort of thing long enough to know there's always one more angle we didn't see before."

"Should I go find Toren so the two of us can clean out every house in the city of their spoons and forks? He and I could set up a small trap tonight. It might be a good idea to poke the Vigilante with one or two and see if he melts."

"I'd rather you refrain from getting in trouble if you can manage that," she said, closing up the letter and sticking it in the table next to the bed. "Until the day after tomorrow, at the least. I need to return to the Guild and explain the situation to them so we can prepare, but I won't be released from the Chapel until morning. Apparently, the priestesses didn't have enough magicka between them to finish healing me without leaving the rest of the wounded to do without. After I'm done at the hideout, I want you to meet me at the West Weald Inn. I imagine it will be around midday unless something unexpected comes up."

"What for?"

Halora's face hardened. He knew that look all too well. It was a rare thing, but when she wore it, he knew that whoever had forced her to bring it out wouldn't be receiving an easy time. This time, he was on the receiving end. "We need to talk before you leave town. About Little Ari, remember?"

Mytho nodded, sinking back against the wall. "I remember, aye. But if we can talk about your Guild troubles here, why can't we just have our little chat about Aressia now?"

Halora's eyes darted from side to side as if she were checking the room for another unseen person. "If there's one secret I'd rather die than risk letting anyone hear about, it's hers. Not even the Guild knows the whole truth and besides, if anyone overheard us, I don't think I could convince the Chapel to keep its mouth shut about two things in one day. It took all the coin I had on-hand to convince that young priestess at the front that the guards are actually looking for the woman down the hall if you know what I mean."

With a sigh, Mytho pushed off the wall and turned to leave. He'd hoped that she would forget all about that with everything else happening, but his luck seemed to be turning sour in that regard. "I'll be back, then," he said. "Don't go making any more brash moves while I'm gone."

"Worried about me muscling my way onto your territory now, are we?" Halora asked. "Please, I wouldn't have gotten this far if I were interested in such a thing."

Mytho huffed, shutting the door behind him as he left the room. He leaned back against the wall in the corridor and groaned quietly as he rubbed his forehead, exhaustion already setting in at the thought of what he was sure would be an argument. He figured he should've realized Luciros hadn't been jeering at him to pass the time. The lad was doing him a favor and warning him of what was coming his way.


	22. Watchers

22

.~~~.

The twin moons were at their peak when Mytho decided to return to Castle Skingrad. The winds were whipping violently at the rooftop like the Divines believed the tiles and stones were in desperate need of a good thrashing. Earlier, when the final embers of sunset flickered from red to purple and blue, Mytho toyed with the notion of turning in for the night. The rest of the city seemed to be doing the very thing, he'd noted after watching window shutters be closed and doors locked. Why not him as well? After what he had been through in the past week, he figured he deserved to spend at least one night unwinding before he would be on his way out of the city.

His restless legs were unfortunately not so keen on the idea. They preferred the draw of action, not comfort, and after skirting the edges of the inn for ten minutes without going inside, he decided he was not in any place to argue. He took to the streets again, hoping he wasn't going to regret what he was doing when his back ached at dawn.

Mytho stood on the edge of the roof, one foot planted firmly in front of him, as he peered down at the patrolling guards in the castle's courtyard. It was routine work watching them – he had done so to prepare himself for every unannounced visit to any place he fancied – but it had a certain lure prevented it from becoming tedious. The winds, the tall shadows, the guilty thrill of being somewhere he wasn't supposed to be, they all made the experience unforgettable. Standing so far above the world, so close to the stars he felt he could reach out and pluck one from the sky, made the ground below seem like an especially pitiful cage to spend a life trapped inside.

He had hoped that by bringing Toren along for a stroll, he would impart the sensation of limitless freedom to him. If that failed, maybe he could give him a chance to fulfill his childhood fantasy of acting like a master thief. It seemed that one hurdle stood in the way of that. Several, actually. Any that required him to jump from one impressive height to another.

"Come on, lad," Mytho said, his voice lowered to a whisper. "You can stop crawling around already. If you can fall from this big of a place, you may as well take that sword back to its owner while the night's still young. Remember, it's all about –"

"I know!" Toren said, nearly raising his voice. "Footwork! But isn't footwork only good for something when you can _see_ where you're putting your feet?"

"Well, yes and no," Mytho said as he walked away from the ledge and stood in front of him. "It isn't about being able to see every last detail. You're going to miss a few but as long as you don't miss the largest of them, you ought to keep yourself from falling all over the place. Understand?"

Toren shook his head and curled up tighter than before.

Mytho grabbed him by the back of his vest and hoisted him to his feet. Toren yelped and latched onto his arm, much too close for comfort.

"Listen," Mytho began, doing his best to gently peel Toren off, "My point is that seeing isn't everything. Sometimes relying on your eyes puts you at a disadvantage. In our line of work, we'll be skulking around in the dark more often than we are in broad daylight. Learn to use your other senses to fill in the gaps and you won't look like a fool."

"And what even is our 'line of work?'" Toren asked. "Chimney cleaning?"

"That depends. Do you think you'd be a good chimney sweep?" Even in the dark, Mytho could imagine the piercing glare he was receiving. "How about we stop all this whining, eh? We've got a job to do."

"I _already_ had a job to do!" Toren snapped, "Finding that man! And I was making good progress, as well!"

"Aye, I'm sure you were. But right now, I'd rather you be here with me." Mytho walked towards the ledge again and looked down at the guards still on their patrols. "Besides, you need to learn how to properly case a target if you're ever going to be a thief of any worth."

"I can scout very well, thank you very much."

"You know how to watch from a safe distance and run when somebody looks in your general direction, aye," Mytho said, unbuckling his swords and setting them on the ground. "If you truly want to get anything done, you'll need to get closer than halfway across the city."

Toren's footsteps were quiet as he approached, not silent like he'd been told they should be. "What are you doing?"

"Getting rid of extra noise-makers, like you should be doing right now. We aren't going into the place to kill someone – not tonight anyway – so we shouldn't take anything along that suggest that or makes us more likely to get caught up on something."

"We aren't going into the place at all, are we?"

"What in the name of Akatosh did you think we were doing here?" Mytho asked, putting his heel on the ledge.

"I'm not sure anymore but going in without any weapons?" Toren asked, sounding as surprised as his expression probably looked. "Are you joking?"

"Without _ours_ , lad," Mytho corrected. "They've got quite a few decorative blades hanging from the walls in there. If we can't use those, we can always take a vase and smash it over someone's head until they're nice and quiet." Mytho climbed over from the ledge and began to work his way down. "That said, let me remind you that our goal tonight is to make it in and out without disturbing anything, not even those disgustingly gaudy rugs the jolly Count loves so much."

"And if one of us gets caught?" Toren asked.

Mytho stopped to search for another foothold before proceeding. "Well, if _you_ get yourself caught, it'll be sink or swim time, lad," he said. "I hate to put it this way but if you end up in the dungeon before sunrise, I won't be able to set you free for a while. You'll be in there until I find the time or you figure your own way out. Or, uh, until Count Ris decides it's off with your head. Now, are you coming with me or do I have to go in all by my lonesome?"

Toren let out a quiet groan and set his rapier on the ground. "Fine, I'll go. But if _you_ get caught and end up in prison, I'm going to save you. And that's that."

Mytho covered his laugh by pulling his hood up and his mask over his chin. "I'll keep that I mind."

He dropped onto the wall and waited for Toren to lower himself down before they began to cross it. The chasm dividing the castle from the rest of the city awaited them below, its maw wide open and ready to swallow them if they made one false step. Just beyond it, the whole of Skingrad spread out, giving Mytho a vantage point to see the city all the way to the other side. Flecks of orange torchlight lined the streets and dotted the windows, the great steeple on the Chapel standing tall above everything.

He wondered if Halora was in the Chapel then, alone and seething in silence, or if the rest of her drones had found a way to slip inside undetected and keep their operation in from grinding to a halt. Knowing the way they worked, it was likely they had and that she'd only shut her eyes long enough to a wink since she'd been brought there, the stubborn woman. That relentless clinging to her ways was the reason she'd gotten a new scar, he figured. As much as he wished she'd swallow that damnable pride of hers long enough to see her inflexibility was a weakness and not a strength, he knew she wouldn't.

Damn her. All he wanted to do was come to town and search for a lead. Not get involved with her dilemma. Not have another reason to be distracted. After seeing her in the Chapel, looking as if age had finally caught up after so many years of her outrunning it and been merciless in its dealings, he couldn't find it in himself to leave her now.

Mytho's hands instinctively tried to wrap around the hilts of his blades, finding nothing but empty air at his hips. He didn't dare mention it to Toren, but there was another reason they were there. If the night went the way he wanted it to, he'd be speaking his mind to the man – the _vampire_ – that deserved to hear it the most. Nothing more. As much as it pained him to admit it, Mytho was glad he didn't have his swords. They would probably be as eager to draw blood as he was.

As they came to the end of the wall, a spire looming above them, Mytho peered over the edge and into the courtyard. If his memory served him correctly, there was a storeroom just below them.

Mytho gripped the uneven bricks as he climbed down and Toren copied his movements like a shadow lacking any sort of grace. As they reached the window, Mytho shoved a small pick through the shutters and pushed upwards. When he heard the click of the latch being lifted, he pulled them open and slipped inside, landing closely behind a stack of wooden crates as high as the ceiling. He barely had enough time to move before Toren flew in behind him, landing awkwardly.

Mytho peeked around the edge of the stack of crates. The room was dark – as he expected it to be – save the line of light from the hallway on the other side running along the floor. He stepped around Toren and closed the shutters, blotting out the glittering stars. "Do you still have that lantern?" he asked. "This ought to be as safe a place as any to speak while we're here."

Toren didn't respond verbally but answered by lighting the lantern. A soft glow filled the room, revealing what was beyond the crates. Several tables and chairs were pushed against the wall, the rest of the space filled with more boxes than Mytho could stomach the thought of searching.

He removed the hasty map he'd drawn of the castle before setting out and placed it on the table in the middle of the room. They were on the western side, that much he knew, and by the look of it, they were on the uppermost floor. Using the edge of the table, he nicked his thumb to squeeze out a few drops of blood to mark that down.

"What are you doing that for?" Toren asked, coming around to the other side of the table, one eyebrow lifted in suspicion.

"Ah, it's only the most important part of plotting a forced entry," Mytho said, spinning the map around and wiping his thumb on his coat. "Knowing where you're coming in and how you're leaving. When you're trying to get somewhere you shouldn't be, time isn't something you'll have much of. You'll need to be quick, precise, and not running up and down the halls like you're searching for somewhere to relieve yourself. How you keep yourself from getting turned around is up to you, but I prefer to make maps."

"It's rather detailed," Toren said.

Mytho smirked. "Seeing as I was the navigator back when I was a sailor, I'd damn well hope I know how to keep a map."

Instead of marveling like Mytho expected him to, Toren's frown deepened. "If you don't mind, sir, would you tell me a bit more about this job of yours?"

"Didn't I say quite a lot already?" Mytho asked, waving the map back and forth to dry it.

"All you've told me is that you're investigating the Gray Forest. But you've also said there isn't a Lady-In-Flames and that you're only looking for survivors. What I'm wondering is why you care to go chasing them down. What would they have to tell you about a forest fire that's so interesting?"

"That's because the Lady-In-Flames _does_ exist, lad," Mytho said, letting out a sigh, "And I'm looking for her more than I am survivors."

"Then why did you tell me she didn't exist?"

"First of all," Mytho began, "I had no idea whether or not you were the type to go running your mouth. Secondly, I know what I told you and I stand by it. There isn't a mythical woman prowling the Gray Forest. She's just a normal one and she isn't prowling there anymore." As he reached into his coat to put the map away, he removed the page with the girl's face on it. "I've even got proof that she exists right here."

Toren leaned over the page, his eyes squinted heavily at the sketch of her face. "Ysadette, eh?" he muttered, tracing over her name with his thumb. "So she's a Breton?"

Mytho nodded. "It's a stretch, I'm sure, but you wouldn't happen to know anything about her, would you? Seen her passing through town at some point? It'd save me quite a bit of time if you did."

Toren shook his head. "No, I'm afraid I've never heard or seen anything about her. Besides the obvious, that is. Sorry." He lifted the paper from the table, holding it out as far away as his arms would permit him to. "I'm not sure what I expected of her but it certainly wasn't this. She doesn't look the type to go burning down a whole damned forest."

"That's another mystery that I've yet to solve about her," Mytho said. "See, the girl is supposed to have some old Dunmer tailing her wherever she goes. The 'Squat Demon' of the story, I imagine. According to what I know of him, it's far more likely that he's responsible for the fire."

Toren shivered visibly, drawing the page closer to himself. "And you're chasing them both, knowing that he's capable of such a thing? Are you mad?"

Mytho sat on the edge of the table, his hands wrestling each other in his lap. "I don't have much of a choice, lad. My, er, _employer_ is rather interested in having a reunion with the old mer. Very interested."

Toren lowered the page and looked Mytho over, a hint of skepticism in his eyes. "The Phantom of Bravil can't tell a man to take his payment and his reunion and shove both up his ass?"

For a moment, Mytho felt that monster's clawed hands digging into his flesh again, squeezing his head until it was fit to burst, the alcohol sizzling in his open wounds as he was forced against the tabletop. He could hear the hoarse voice purring in his ears – the reek of death hanging on every poisoned word – and that hollowed laugh that made his heart quiver strangely and his palms grow soggy and cold.

Then Aressia standing in front of him, so different from how he'd left her that he didn't want to believe it was her at first. He could feel his tongue hurrying to tie itself in knots all over again, feel that ache in his chest warning him that if he followed his first inclination, the one he'd already followed once before and lost years because of it, he'd regret for the rest of his days.

Mytho steadily released the breath he noticed he had been holding in his lungs. "It's not that I have much of a choice, lad," he said, hating the sound of that pathetic admittance escaping his lips. "I've given my word and I doubt I'll be forgiven if I break it."

Toren grumbled a curse under his breath. "I don't mean to sound ungrateful for what you've given me, sir, but telling half-truths and keeping so many secrets isn't a good way to keep my trust."

"That isn't my aim, lad," Mytho said, wagging his finger at him. "Tonight, you're supposed to be earning _mine_."

"And if I am, what would be my best course of action?"

"You could start by deciding that for yourself," Mytho said. "It's likely you'll make a few mistakes along the way but I'll applaud you for setting your own course and staying it until the bitter end. Make sense?"

"You want me to be stubborn?"

Mytho squeezed Toren's shoulder. "I want you to be _decisive_. Do that, and you'll be well on your way to earning my respect. Assuming a guard doesn't run you through, that is."

Toren gave him that questioning look he'd given once before, somehow appearing dumb yet uncomfortably perceptive, then looked back at the girl's depiction. "I suppose your employer must be awfully close to the elf if he's got your heart bleeding for him," he muttered. "And if I were in your stead, I suppose I wouldn't object to meeting this Lady-In-Flames, either."

"Aye, I'm sure you wouldn't." Mytho snatched the page from Toren's hands and stuffed it back into his coat. "But right now I haven't the time for you to waste ogling her."

"I-I wasn't ogling her!" Toren said, stumbling back as if he'd been pushed. "I mean, she's pretty! But that, uh, it wasn't why I, um, I was trying to memorize her face."

Mytho patted him on the back and pushed off the table. "Ah, don't worry about it. Your secret puppy-love is safe with me," he said, snuffing out the lantern before he crossed the room.

"It isn't puppy-love, damn it! I don't even know her!"

Mytho stifled his laughter as he gently pushed the door open and peeked outside.

The corridor was dim, offering plenty of darkness to hide them. A perfect means of slinking from one side of Castle Skingrad to the other, save one issue. Heavy, metallic footsteps echoed down the hall, growing closer until the arrived around the corner. A guard, his eyes reddened and laden with heavy bags, marched stiffly down the corridor, going towards the bend opposite of where he started. Mytho held the door just wide enough to watch him through the slit and waited for his footsteps to become distant before fully pushing it open.

He and Toren slithered out of the storeroom and into the hallway, sweeping from one shadowy corner to another as they moved through the castle. When the clank of a guard's approach sounded like an alarm, Mytho tucked himself into the first hiding spot he could find, whether it was in a corner or a room he could force his way into. Toren found his own hiding spots, often choosing to wedge himself between decorative items and underneath furniture. Only once did he hang out of an open window. Mytho was sure he regretted that action when the dim-witted guard passing at the time decided it was a bit too breezy outside to leave the shutters open all night long.

As they traveled deeper into the castle, Mytho took note of each turn they made. He wasn't surprised the layout was simplistic. Nobility rarely seemed to think of making their extravagant homes harder to navigate, almost as if they were inviting people like him inside. In this instance, he was especially glad. Toren, much to Mytho's surprise, didn't appear to have any issue following him through the corridors and staying out of sight. Although he figured it would've been different if the place wasn't so straightforward.

At last, they reached the hall where the servant's quarters were located. Mytho stopped at the door to Ilawe's room and carefully turned the knob until it refused to turn any further. He figured it was likely the man was inside the room then, fast asleep and easily able to be taken by surprise. As far as he could tell, only a handful of drowsy guards would be patrolling the hall during the night. All that really stood between him and his goal was a short climb and a lock.

They were trivial matters, barely able to slow him down if he truly wanted to force his way through. He was so damned close, so close to being on his way, either chasing another lead or the girl herself.

Yet he couldn't risk causing an uproar before Halora was ready to make her move. As much as he detested the idea of letting her decide his movements, he'd at least found a sure route to his target that he could follow. With that much in mind, he and Toren sneaked back across the castle and into the storeroom. As they exited through the window, Mytho left a mark on the wall outside, ensuring he wouldn't enter another mistakenly on his return, and climbed back onto the rooftop.

"That wasn't so bad," Toren said as he strutted proudly along the wall, stretching his arms above his head. "From the way you were talking, I thought we were going to be breaking into the Count's chambers!"

"Don't get cocky there, lad," Mytho said, pushing on Toren's back and urging him forward. "I saw you struggling as we climbed back up. You were one false move from having to be scrubbed off the ground like a stain. Next time, take it slow and make sure you know where you're putting your feet."

"Me?" Toren asked incredulously. "I wasn't the one spitting curses about his aching back! If you think I was struggling, then maybe your eyes are going too!"

"Aye, they might be," Mytho said, rubbing his eyes to relieve them of the glossy feeling they'd taken on over the long day of sitting around, "But I'm still spry enough to kick your arse around even if I had just one arm to work with."

Silence. Toren likely knew he didn't have an argument to make at that.

As they walked along the wall, the uncanny sensation of hateful eyes tugged at Mytho. He absentmindedly traced over the rooftops, the spires, halting when he spotted a figure looming over them. In reflex, he reached for the swords that weren't at his hips.

It was about damned time.

Perched on the tip of the spire opposite of Mytho was the Vigilante. His tattered cloak billowed out behind him like a cloud. His heels were together and his posture so stiff he could've been part of the architecture, unflinching in the violent winds. How long he'd been watching over them, Mytho wasn't sure, but he figured it was far longer than he was comfortable admitting. If he were to guess, probably since before they had entered Castle Skingrad.

Mytho wasn't going to let such a pitiful attempt intimidate him. He turned to face the man head-on, daring him to approach. Either he would be on his way or Mytho would be graced with the meeting he was already eager to have.

The Vigilante only stood motionless in silent observation, the winds circling around him. With a graceful twirl, he leaped down from the spire in the other direction and disappeared.

"Sir?" Toren called out, finally noticing that Mytho had stopped. "Is something the matter?"

Mytho squinted at the tip of the spire and around it, making sure that the Vigilante wasn't approaching from just out of sight. There was nothing. It was as if the man hadn't been there at all. "No, lad," Mytho said, walking again, "Nothing at all."

 _You'll get yours,_ Mytho thought, glancing over his shoulder at the other side of the castle, his fists clenched. _I promise you that._

 _.~~~._

Halora sat on the windowsill and watched as Luciros hurriedly tried to vanish into the shadows cast by the tall buildings. As much as she hated telling him to leave, she knew it was necessary. It was a risk he had taken by visiting her. He had to have known that. He'd insisted several times over, though, that he had done so for the sole purpose of bringing her a bottle of wine and a bit of cheese. Nothing more. But his tell – an obvious gesture of picking at his thumbnail – told her all she needed to know about his true intentions. He never was one to sit idle and hope his worries would fade if he left them alone for long enough. Halora found kinship with him in that regard. Ignorance was never bliss. It was only a pitiful means of pretending that mounting issues had the ability to resolve themselves. Which, of course, they never did. Like her, he needed evidence. In this case, evidence that she wasn't in as terrible a condition he had probably imagined the entire day.

As she lost sight of him entirely, Halora reached for the bottle of Surilie Brothers Vintage 185 sitting next to her knee and took a long swig, praying that no priestesses would barge in until she had time to stash it away. They weren't fond of what they believed to be "drunkards" taking up space in the Chapel and she knew she wasn't in any place to argue with them. They were the very people who could send a guard her way at any time, after all. However, after idling around for so long, the gash across her chest stinging every time she moved and her tailbone aching from being sat on for so many hours, Halora couldn't find it in herself to care much about their wishes. If it were up to her, she'd be drunk and stumbling until they let her out of what was little more than a pampered dungeon.

That was the curious part about drinking tonight, though. Halora knew her limit when it came to drinking and it was far lower than two-thirds of a bottle of wine under half an hour. Last time she'd gotten carried away, it had taken her half a night to work through a few glasses and later found it too troublesome to slog out of bed until an hour after midday. This time she was only feeling a bit relaxed, a little less pained and miserable, but no less sharp than she had been the entire day. In fact, she felt a bit sharper and downright invigorated. If she didn't think it would cause a stir or bring about a certain unwanted visitor who'd put her in the Chapel in the first place, she would've taken a stroll across the roof of the Chapel. Maybe even climbed the steeple to see the stars better. She knew better than to skewer the plan for her own pleasure, though, so she tilted the bottle up again and hoped to find enough to satisfy her.

She sat on the windowsill watching the night sky for another thirty minutes before she felt the excess amount of wine beginning to set in. And that was it. Thirty more minutes after that, nothing else had changed except she'd grown frustrated with the idea of someone diluting it so horribly that it hadn't even been worth the effort Luciros had gone through to bring it to her.

Halora would've smashed the bottle and gone to bed if it didn't mean picking up the glass shards later. Instead, she set it aside and wiped away the red stain it left on her lips, wishing that it if couldn't do her the honor of inebriating her, it would at least relieve the dizzying thirst she'd been feeling since twilight.


	23. Cruel Man

23

.~~~.

"We'll go in pairs," Halora said as she stood up from the circular seat in the middle of the Guild hideout. She waited until the Shadowfoots sitting around the table with her were paying attention before proceeding. "Each pair will be responsible for their assigned street and will not move from that street unless another pair gives the signal. At that point, everyone will converge at the location of the signal and deal with the threat."

"And what will that signal be?" Llovyn, one of the Shadowfoots asked as he leaned back in the seat. "Are we just going to shout at the sky until someone comes running?"

"I've had Luciros working on that since he returned last night," she said. "It'll take some time to finish the mixture, but we should have something quite noticeable before tomorrow evening at the latest. Just give him some time. He'll get it done."

She paused to look at each of the Shadowfoots, searching their expressions for the skepticism she already knew she would find. It was there, making itself known by their avoidant gazes and uncomfortable coughs, although it had not been directed at her plan. Rather, it hadn't been directed at its feasibility. They already made their opinions known about that facet soon after she proposed it. If she could, she would've feigned ignorance and tried to talk around the problem. However, the air was growing thicker with tension the longer they all kept silent about it.

Still, she would be damned if she was the one to take initiative in that regard.

Halora sighed restrictively to gather herself before she continued. "Now, we'll go over who is assigned where after everyone else has gathered tonight. As for today, I suggest you all take time to patrol the streets and learn the quickest ways around the city. Even if you know already, it won't hurt to refresh yourself. As the highest ranking members currently in Skingrad besides myself, I'll be counting on all of you to keep an eye on the situation. If it's possible, we'll make it through tomorrow night without a single death."

"On our part," Llovyn said, breathing out a laugh.

"Precisely. Is that a problem?"

Llovyn narrowed his eyes, his angled face becoming sharper. "Not at all, Madam Doyen, but I think you're still neglecting one aspect of this bold plan of ours."

Halora hunched over the table and dropped her head low. "No, I think I've said all I want to say. I am, however, willing to listen to whatever it is that's on your mind if it doesn't take too much time. I have an important meeting I need to attend and I'm already going to be late."

One Shadowfoot – she didn't know who – snickered at that.

Llovyn leaned forward and clasped his hands in front of his mouth. "Ma'am," he said, inhaling sharply, "I think I speak for all of us when I say that we take issue with the fact that this plan involves working alongside that murderer, the Phantom of Bravil."

"I'm aware of that."

"And it's not that we doubt your leadership. Far from it. But we have come to doubt your ability to approach this situation without letting your personal feelings interfere."

Halora lifted her head and shot him a look so he knew she wasn't pleased. "How do you figure that?"

"For one, you decided on this plan without first asking for our collective input," he said. "Rather, you brought the Phantom into the hideout while we were prowling the city and began to scheme without even letting Luciros know what was happening. Now, I know it's not my place..."

"You're right," Halora said, "it isn't."

"But he was expelled from the Guild for a reason," Llovyn continued, ignoring her entirely. "It's no secret among us, especially the elder members, that the events surrounding his expulsion happened with you at the center. And that, uh," he cleared his throat, "the two of you share quite a bit of history."

"Your point?"

Llovyn had been maintaining eye-contact with her since the beginning. For a moment, though, he looked away and down at his feet. "We're simply concerned, Madam Doyen, that you've allowed yourself to agree to his plan based on that very history you share."

Halora stood up straight and crossed her arms. "What exactly is it you're implying? That I've agreed to go along with his plan because I'm pining for him? That I'm some hapless and heartbroken woman hoping to rekindle her old love by stroking his ego?"

Llovyn looked away again, his lips pulled into a line. The other Shadowfoots reacted similarly.

"As if," she said. "But in case that isn't clear enough, allow me to me say this in no uncertain terms; while there may have been something between us in the past, it's been far too long to even pretend it would influence my decisions now. It's ridiculous, even. Absolute nonsense. The route I've chosen in dealing with the Vigilante is solely in the best interests of the Guild. Not mine."

"What about this 'important meeting' you're late for?" Llovyn asked. "How does that involve the Guild's future endeavors?"

Halora sank into the circular seat and pinched the bridge of her nose. "It doesn't. It's entirely personal in nature. You can consider it an unfortunate coincidence that the solution to the threat facing the Guild and the root of my private issues are one and the same. The two, however, don't overlap. What I intend to speak with him about is of no consequence to the current dilemma we're facing."

More silence. More avoidant gazes. She didn't need to guess at what they were thinking.

Halora wanted to let out a groan but she swallowed it before it could climb up her throat. "It isn't my aim to convince you that you should be giddy at the idea of working arm in arm with him. I know more than one of you were members when the previous Guildmaster was killed." Halora paused and looked Llovyn dead in the eyes, causing him to look away and recoil into the seat. "I know that some of you were very close to him. Please, hear me when I say that I'm not trying to make light of Aldor's death by doing this. As much as you and I may wish for one, there isn't a decent alternative."

"Except there is," Llovyn added. "You don't need to pretend like none of us know how to handle a knife or how to strike where it counts."

"And I'm not going to," Halora said. "I'm also not going to pretend that you all aren't experienced, some almost as much as myself. Which means you know our code; no killing unless in self-defense. In any normal case, I wouldn't hesitate to give you permission to deal with the situation how you see fit as this _is_ a direct attack on each and every one of us. If need be, I would personally pay whatever fines you incurred. This, however, isn't a normal case."

"And how is that?" Llovyn said, his voice raised. "First the Vigilante killed Dahlin-Dar and then he nearly killed you. If he'd been successful, we would've had no one leading the Guild until Ra'hur gets back from the Imperial City. Azura only knows when that'll be, too!"

"Calm down," Halora said, her voice low. "Getting angry won't do a damned thing besides cause you to act rashly."

"Perhaps I want to act rashly," Llovyn said, standing up to full height. The other Shadowfoots remained silent as ever. "We need to do something before that bastard takes another one of us. That is if your boyfriend doesn't decide to start cutting our heads off one by one."

"That's enough," Halora growled, feeling her face flush red. "As long as the Guildmaster is away, I'm in charge. Not a single thing that goes on in the streets of Skingrad nor below them happens without my say-so and I will not have you stand here and disrespect me. Do I make myself clear?"

"Oh, you've made yourself clear, _Madam Doyen_ ," Llovyn said. "Very clear, in fact. What you haven't been clear about is how this benefits us."

Halora dragged her palms across her face. "Really? That's what you're so angry about? You haven't connected the dots on your own?"

Llovyn's sneer broke and faded into bewilderment.

"This benefits us because we aren't going to be blamed for the killing," Halora said. "I know the Phantom. I know he leaps at any chance he's given to build his legend. Specifically, he loves to set himself apart as a swordsman that no one in Tamriel can match. In this case, he'll be able to show that not even an elder vampire stands a chance against him."

"So?" Llovyn asked.

"So, I intend to use the Phantom's ego to our advantage by allowing him to claim the death of the Vigilante as his own doing. Due to the publicity he's gained in recent times, it will be quite a shock when the Vigilante is outdone by another figure with more than twice the fame. So much, in fact, that I think the Guild will largely be overshadowed when this is over. As a result, the Phantom will get the kind of attention he loves so much while we will have eliminated a major threat to our operation without soiling our reputation."

Llovyn dropped into the seat and held his head in his hands. "All the trouble we've gone through and you're just going to hand the kill over that s'wit?"

Halora stood up from the seat and climbed over the back, leaving the Shadowfoots in the pit around the table. "Believe me," she said, turning around to face them, "I'd love to put an end to the Vigilante myself and let everyone in the city know I struck the killing blow, especially after he ripped out a fistful of my hair when he was throwing me around. However, I can swallow my thirst for revenge and see that there's more at stake. I'm simply asking all of you to do the same towards both the Phantom and the Vigilante so that we won't be cooped up in here forever or slaughtered in the streets. Now, with all that in mind, are there any questions before I go?"

Halora gave them a few moments to think, which they chose to remain silent for. She turned her back, preparing to leave the Guild when she heard someone clear their throat.

"Just one," Llovyn said as he stood up. "Have you told him about any of this yet? He does know what you're planning, doesn't he?"

"I'm working on it," she said, sighing as she leaned against the archway of the tunnel. "Just let me sort out my personal matters with him first and I'll make sure everything is in place." Halora looked back at them one more time, this time finding herself avoiding their eyes and not the other way around, and left the hideout before they had the chance to strike up the conversation again.

As she ascended the stairs, thinking about her meeting with Mytho, her heart thumped away in her chest. It always seemed to do that when he was around, likely reminding her to never let her guard down, not even with him.

Especially not with him.

 _If everything goes well,_ she thought as she passed through the false store and exited into the busy streets, heading towards the West Weald Inn. _As if it ever does._

.~~~.

Mytho stared down the piping hot cup of tea in his hands, not having tasted it yet. Instead, he had spent several minutes shifting in his chair, hoping he would find a way to make himself comfortable. It wasn't that the shaded balcony was lacking in luxury, it was that Halora had been sitting across from him, sipping on her own cup of tea in complete silence. Every now and then, she would make a sound akin to an exasperated sigh, which he figured was her attempt to goad him into opening his mouth and yet he had no idea where to begin speaking. As he thought in silence, he began to wonder if there even was a good way. Probably not.

The sound of Halora tapping her fingernail against the porcelain of her teacup commanded his attention just long enough to catch her cutting gaze level on him before darting away. She took a small sip, looking back and forth between him and the streets, and set it back down on the table. "Would you stop fidgeting so much?" she asked, tracing the rim of the cup with her finger. "We may be too high up for most to see but the extra privacy of the balcony seating won't matter much if you insist on thrashing around."

"Aye," Mytho said, easing back in his chair, "but I wager the only one that notices my habits is you. Otherwise, what would you have to pick at when you're bored?"

Halora took another sip and rolled her eyes. "Your utter lack of subtlety in visiting a city as a stranger, for one. Striding around in the streets with that roguish imagery of yours, two blades on your hips and the like. It isn't exactly low-profile, you know."

Mytho sipped his tea and puckered his lips as the taste slithered through his mouth and down his throat. How did she tolerate something without a hint of sweetness in it? "Old Cap'n Vhos always said a man will only be remembered by two things," he said, brushing his tongue against his teeth, "his actions and the way he looked committing them."

Halora raised an eyebrow. "You act as if he didn't die in the same battle that ended your sailing career. Perhaps if he hadn't made it easy for the Imperial Fleet to find that doggish face of his, he wouldn't have been burned alive."

Mytho shrugged. "It's the price we pay to be penned down as legends. The Empire can bury his ashes at sea and strike his name from their lists, but I doubt the traders he happened upon during his career have forgotten his deeds. In that way, he's still alive and well, isn't he?"

Halora set her teacup on the table and adopted the posture and presence he'd come to expect from nobility, intermittently glancing at him out of the side of her eye. In spite of the looming terror she had brought with her for their meeting, she was enthralling in that way. Always elegant, but there was more mind than empty space between her ears, totally unlike the forever preening lords and ladies. It was fitting since she was no less a queen with her own underground kingdom to rule that thrived by guile and not meaningless public appearances.

"You look much better than you did when I visited you in the Chapel," Mytho said. "Feeling any better?"

Halora nodded. "Still a bit sore, but I'm used to being a little achy nowadays. I'll be fine."

"That's, um, good. I'm glad."

Halora fanned her face with her hand. "And I'm not sure if it's the antidote still working its way through my system or not but I've been burning up since this morning," she said, looking everywhere except at him. "Does it seem hot out here today to you?"

"Could be the tea. Stuff's almost too hot to drink."

Halora only hummed in response, continuing to fan herself and squinting as if the sun were too bright for her eyes even on the shaded balcony. "How was Little Ari doing when you spoke with her?"

Mytho sighed. And so it began. "Lass always hated it when you called her that. Said it seemed like you were calling her a child."

A hint of a smile appeared on her lips and vanished as quickly as it came. "She played favorites between the two of us, as well. And what would you call a twelve-year-old girl if not a child?"

"Her name, I figure," Mytho said, "and she's not a girl anymore. She's…twenty something. I think."

"Twenty-three."

"Right. She, uh, seemed to be doing fine. I knew she had been living somewhere in Anvil, but I didn't know she'd done so well for herself. I was impressed, actually."

"You could keep tabs on her whereabouts but you couldn't be bothered to stop in for a visit?"

Mytho sighed. "Aye. It's much easier to avoid someone if you know where they are. I've been doing it to you for…"

"That's good," she interrupted. Like other times when he said something she thought was idiotic, Halora cut her eyes at him. "We've been writing back and forth to each other ever since she settled down there. Usually, I include a bit of coin in my letters but I've been so busy dealing with the Imperial City job and then the Vigilante that I haven't had time to send anything to her in quite a while. I hope that hasn't placed her under any strain."

"She didn't mention anything of the sort but does that mean you knew she was married?"

Halora took the teacup in her hands again and nodded. "I was the first to know. Paid for most of the wedding expenses, too. And it was a Nord wedding, through and through, meaning the ceremony was a bit on the short side and a bit simpler than I would have preferred. That's how they do it in the North, though. They don't waste any time falling in love since life can be short and harsh. I suppose it was somewhat fitting for her when you think about it."

"What about this husband of hers?" Mytho asked. "Tobias, I think she said his name was. Is he a good one?"

Halora's eyes darted over to him and then back towards the streets. "Worried about her now, are we? Where was that bleeding heart when you ran off that morning without giving her an explanation?"

He had asked himself that same question. More times than he wanted to admit. "She had you, didn't she? She didn't need me. Not anymore."

"I suppose she didn't," Halora said bluntly, "but to answer your question; he's a good one. A good man with a good heart."

"That's a bit vague, love."

Halora exhaled for several seconds as if she weren't keen on speaking with him anymore. "He's not thick-skulled like the rest of the Nords that seem to be pouring out from Skyrim these days," she said. "He knew to get out of there before the Stormcloak Rebellion has a chance to tear apart the whole province. He's sharp, but not so sharp to figure out the things Ari's been hiding from him. Has a talent for crafting jewelry and pretty much anything else he can figure up in his head, which they've turned into a rather profitable business together. And most importantly, he loves her. I have no doubts about that."

A weight lifted from Mytho's shoulders and he stopped holding in his breath. He wasn't sure why he'd been worried in the first place, though. Aressia wasn't the type to let anyone treat her poorly, not without giving them a fight so severe they wouldn't know what to do next.

"I tried to send you an invite," Halora said. She looked at him suspiciously when he didn't respond. "To the wedding? Unfortunately, handing a courier a letter addressed to no one and telling him to figure the rest out isn't any way to get something delivered on time."

"When was it?"

"Fifteenth of Second Seed. Last year."

"Ah, I was in Morrowind at the time. It's just as well that you didn't. A courier probably would've had a bit of trouble catching up to me there."

"Why Morrowind, of all places?" Halora asked. "It isn't known for being wealthy anymore. Not after the Red Year. That is unless you've taken to robbing the poor."

"I was part of a group hired by House Redoran to do a bit of investigating on Vvardenfell," he said. "An expedition team of theirs from Blacklight had gone missing somewhere in what used to be the Ascadian Isles. Wanted us to find out what happened to them."

"What were they even looking for, the Queen of Ash?" Halora asked in a mocking tone. "Hoping to plunder the treasures from her lonely manor in the Scathing Bay? Don't they know she doesn't take kindly to visitors? Whatever she's hiding from the rest of the world, it can't be worth the risk involved."

"I figured the same thing," he said, "but whatever it was they were after, they weren't keen on telling us the truth. Although, I still would've considered tripping over the old biddy and her illusions to be better luck than what we ended up with. All we managed to find were hills of soot and a crater bigger than Skingrad filled with boiling water. Redorans were kind enough to pay us all half up front, though, so it wasn't a complete waste of my time. About five-hundred gold pieces, in case you were wondering."

Halora nodded her head and hummed. The importance of a fat purse was something they could both agree on no matter the occasion. That was how they'd met if his memory served him correct. He still smelled of the ocean, his skin still red and burned, and she was just a pickpocket sizing him up. Both of them, though, spent the rest of the evening up to no good, walking away richer than they were.

Mytho took the cup in his hand and swished the cooling tea around before taking a sip. He let his eyes wander over the streets, to the walls and beyond, and watched the farmers harvesting the seemingly endless supply of grapes. "And you knew Aressia was pregnant, didn't you?"

Halora opened her eyes wide and she doubled over to cough a glob of tea onto the ground. She pressed her fingers against her neck, clearing her throat in rapid succession. "She's _what?_ "

"Ah, so she hasn't told you the news yet? Picked the wrong time to stop writing, didn't you?"

Halora shook her head but didn't say a word.

The unadulterated pride Mytho derived from knowing something that she didn't, for once, made him smirk even wider than he usually would. As much as he enjoyed his small victory, he wasn't a sick man and seeing her distraught wasn't among the sights he enjoyed. "Don't fret, love," he said, sipping the last of his tea and setting the empty cup on the table. "It looked to me like you still have some time to visit her before the baby's born."

Halora buried her face in her hands and shook her head. "No, no, that's a terrible measure!" she said. "S-she could be showing early or maybe she's...my word, she could be just a few weeks away and I…" Halora trailed off, fidgeting in her chair like she was sitting on coals, and finally turned to him. "And you!"

"Me?" He pointed to himself.

"You didn't ask her how far along she was?" Halora said. "Are you insane? You didn't even ask her that much?"

"I, uh, didn't think to," Mytho said quietly. "I suppose I should have. I'm sure she's told you in her letters, though. Maybe we can figure it out from those."

Halora didn't respond. After a stretch of time filled with strange sounds and uncomfortable twisting, she let out a long sigh. "That girl," she mumbled, "she's too much like you. Always getting in over her head, always diving into things so quickly."

"You don't have to pretend to be so rigid, Hallie," Mytho said teasingly. "It's just you and me sitting here and I'm not going to be fooled one bit by your act."

Halora sat up straight, her lips drawn in the most forced line he'd seen on a person. It was a valiant effort she was giving, but he could see the curl on their edges plain as day. "I'll have to make time to visit her," she said, her voice sounding as equally strained as her face looked. "It's clearly been too long. I'll…" She trailed off, adding to her habit of doing so. "I'll send her a gift of some sort. Until I can find time to make the trip to Anvil. Yes. That'll have to do."

Mytho slowly blew a breath out of his nose. "I was shocked as well. To say the least, anyway. Finding out so much had happened since the last time I saw her…" He shook his head. "I guess I didn't think she would change so quickly. I figured I would find her sharpening a knife or prowling the streets after dark. Not at home trying to sleep, of all things."

Halora held her teacup in both hands, tapping her finger against the surface like she was trying to crack it open.

It had been years since he had seen her radiant smile, almost to the point he had forgotten how it looked, but he knew several times over not to call attention to it no matter how much he wanted to. "You know what? We could go visit her together," Mytho said. "I intend on going back after I finish this job of mine."

He glanced over, thinking he'd see her nodding emphatically in agreement.

Halora cut her eyes at him and her smile withered away – displaced by a growing frown. "Is that so?" she asked, her voice flattened.

"Yes," he said, eyeing her curiously. "That's what I plan to do."

Halora didn't seem any more pleased at having that clarified. "I see. Did you ask her how she felt about that?"

"Er…no."

"What about Tobias? Did you ask him what he thought?"

"You know, love, the funny thing about that is…"

"Actually, did you even think about how he would react if he found out the truth about you? As far as I know, he still thinks I'm just some wealthy noblewoman that lives in Aleswell. I doubt she's even tried to explain who you are, assuming she told him you existed in the first place."

"Well, no. I haven't thought about any of that, but I…"

Halora crossed her arms and scowled at him.

"See, I left her a note."

"A note!" Halora said with an insincere laugh. "Really? Well, color me impressed. What did you do? Scribble it on the back of a trashed newspaper? Paint it on the walls of her house?"

"It was more of a letter, actually," he said, "and I wrote it on a _blank_ sheet of paper, thank you. With a quill and some ink."

"It better have been a damn fine letter, then," Halora said, turning her teacup to the sky and drinking the last of her tea. "How did you give it to her?"

Mytho shrugged. "I don't see what difference that…"

Halora slammed the cup down on the table and glared at him. "How did you give it to her?" she asked again, voice filled with growing ire.

Mytho sank deep into his chair. "I didn't want to bother her any more than I already had, so I left it on a table after she went back upstairs to bed. Next to the hearth."

"Why am I not surprised?" Halora said, exhaling as she shook her head. "So, what did it say? That you were going to turn back time and stop yourself from ever breaking her heart? That you weren't going to abandon her again without telling her why? Or that you were going to make up for all those years you wasted? It's one of those, wasn't it?"

Halora crossed one leg over the other and cast her gaze out to the streets again. "I can't imagine what's going through her head right now. You know what? I don't _want_ to imagine it. Having to worry about keeping her past a secret and trying to get ready for the baby at the same time? She's probably a mess."

"I'm trying my best. Why is that never enough for you?"

"Because it just isn't," Halora said, looking at him with a freshly burning fire behind her eyes. "Because you don't seem to understand that you don't deserve to be forgiven simply because you mean well and that good intentions don't equal a good action."

"It's a start, isn't it?"

"Hardly. And if your 'best' looks like repeating the same action that hurt her before, then I'll put it this way," she looked over the table towards Mytho, her face unflinching and hard as stone, "stop making things complicated and stay away from her. Just go on about your life and stop pretending like you care."

"I thought you would be happy that I'm trying to fix things."

"Fix things? Is that all you can think about? Fixing things? This isn't something you can just fix, not when you don't even know how she was after you left."

"You could tell me, then, instead of keeping me in the dark and poking holes in my plans."

"She waited for you every day for three damned months," Halora said, gritting her teeth. "She fell asleep watching the road every night, wishing with everything she had that she'd see you walking up the hill before dawn."

"Why didn't you tell her the truth?" Mytho growled. "She was starting to idolize me. Next thing you know, she would want to be just like me and go everywhere I went. Then, she would be right back where she started. You knew that was why I left and you didn't say a damned thing about it."

"What was I supposed to say to her?" she asked. "Oh, he loves you, Little Ari! He really does! He just can't be near you because he's afraid you can't think for yourself!"

"Don't you ever get tired of acting like I'm an awful person or is it easier to blame me for everything?"

Halora shot up to full height and looked down on him. A vein in her forehead throbbed visibly. Mytho stood up as well and planted his hands on the tabletop.

"There's no one else to blame other than you!" she said, jabbing her finger against his chest. "I had to sit and watch her heart break into pieces because of you! I had to lie to her face just to keep her from running away and trying to find you! And when she finally realized that you weren't coming back…" Halora wiped her palm across her cheek as if she expected to catch a tear and slumped down in her chair. "I couldn't do anything to calm her down. Ari locked herself in her room and refused to speak to me. When she finally let me in, all I could do was hold her while she cried herself sick. Does that even matter to you?"

"I never wanted to hurt her," Mytho said, sitting down again. "You know that."

"Then you should've stayed," she hissed. "You shouldn't have made her believe she had a family just so you could break it apart for your own selfish desires."

"So you'd rather her end up like me? Like us?" Mytho said, gesturing between them. "Did you forget what kind of life she lived before we came along? Gods, she knew how to slit a man's throat and hide from the guards before she saw ten winters! There was a reason she never wanted to talk about it with us! Is that the kind of life you want for her? Or did you forget that I found her half dead and floating in a piss-river?"

"That's not what I'm saying!" Halora said. "You know what I mean!"

"I don't see how I'm the selfish one," Mytho said. "I wanted to give her a choice, one that meant she wouldn't spend the rest of her days looking over her shoulder if she didn't want to. I was also willing to let her make that choice even if that meant I couldn't be part of it. You, on the other hand, tried to force her into that image of a happy family you had in your head."

"And what was wrong with that?" Halora asked. "How do you stand there and condemn me for trying to give an orphan girl something she didn't believe she would ever have?"

"Because it wasn't for her," Mytho said. "It was for you. You never asked her what she wanted but you have the nerve to sit there and moralize as if you did. All you wanted to do was mold her into the person you wanted her to be. You didn't want her to figure that out for herself because you were afraid the answer wouldn't align with what you had in mind for her."

Halora's mouth dropped open. She blinked a few times, a strange sound coming from the back of her throat. After a few moments of silence, her mouth clamped shut and she raised to her feet. She paused for a moment, glaring down at him and her chin quivering before she turned away.

"Where on Nirn do you think you're –"

Before Mytho could finish his question, she spun around and her hand met his cheek with a resounding crack, snapping his face back with force alone. Heat immediately gathered, burning his skin like hot needles.

"How dare you!" Halora shouted. "I was willing to sacrifice everything to make her happy! I would've left the Guild for us! But you had to ruin everything!" Another slap rocked him before his ears could stop ringing from the last. "You childish, self-centered _bastard!"_

Halora raised her hand again, open-palmed and ready to strike. But she didn't. Tears welled up in her eyes and spilled over in a hurry to her chin. Her legs trembled and she crumpled into the chair like she'd been knocked unconscious.

Mytho winced as he rubbed the fresh marks scorching his face. He could feel the flat of her palm in the middle, fingers extending from there and snaking across his skin. He poked at the cut beneath his eye and wiped the drop of blood on his coat.

Halora looked up at him, as gray as she was in the Chapel before. "Did you ever stop to think that maybe what she wanted was for you to be part of her life?" she asked. "That maybe she wanted the three of us to be together, at least pretending we were a normal family? And did you ever think that by running away, you took away that choice? Or were you too afraid of what that would mean for that 'freedom' of yours?"

Mytho sat in his chair, reeling as his own stupidity crystallized. It wasn't true. Or was it? Had he truly been so blind as to not see that?

Halora covered her face in her hands and sucked in a shuddering breath.

"Hallie," he said, reaching out to her, "I didn't know. I'm…"

Halora swatted his hand away and looked up at him as if she wanted him to vanish immediately. "Do you want to know something?" she asked, her voice brittle. "I'm not even sure what I thought I would accomplish here. You've always been out for yourself. It's always been about being free, always doing whatever you please, everyone else be damned. Isn't that right?"

Mytho's tongue grew clumsy and useless and his mouth insisted on staying shut, just as it had before when he tried to talk with Aressia. Halora's words were a horrifying echo of hers, their piercing sounds no less violating but made more destructive through their repetition.

Had they both thought of him that way?

"I was an idiot to think this meeting wouldn't be a mistake," Halora said, wiping the heel of her hand across her cheek. "We're dealing with the Vigilante tomorrow night. You can get your man and leave Skingrad. Now, just get out of my sight. Please. I don't have anything else to say to you."

Mytho killed every word he wanted to say while it was still in his gut. Even to him, they sounded stale and worn. He stood up from the table and walked around her, stopping for a moment before he passed back through the tavern. Over his shoulder, he could see her shivering and hear her smothered breaths.

And, as if he needed to be reminded of what he had done, his chest ached again, leaving him silently begging it to stop.

He wasn't just the world's most idiotic man. No, he was far worse than that.

 _Cruel,_ he thought. _You're just a cruel man._


	24. The Longest Night

24

.~~~.

Halora stood on the ledge, overlooking the moonlight bathed city as the gentle breeze of night brushed against her face. In the darkest corners where the stars couldn't reach, moving through the alleys and streets in utter silence, were her guildmates. From the dividing line between the Hightown district and the Castle to the far-flung edge of the Chapel District, they were there, doing the best they could to shrink the distance between one another, forming a web with her in the middle. Her instincts insisted she could trust them to be safe and sensible – down to youngest and least experienced members – but a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach made her doubt that ingrained truth.

Since twilight, several hours before they had begun to prepare the trap for the Vigilante, she had felt something was wrong. With her? She was not sure of that. Aside from the dull aches in her bones and sharp stinging in her yet unhealed wounds, there was nothing she could find that was out of the ordinary. And yet, for a reason she could not place, the rational part of her had become quite the opposite, instead vying desperately for her attention to beg that she flee before it was too late. Stranger still, Halora couldn't find a modicum of fear in herself. In fact, she was eager for what the night held, more eager than she usually would be.

Having the Guild mere seconds away should have given her stirring mind the peace it deserved. While that had been the case at first, the rest of her seemed to disagree on the finer details. She lifted her hand and covered the moon, sighing as she let it tremble for her skepticism to see.

Maybe if she truly were feeling anxious, it wasn't unfounded. Without Dahlin-Dar, someone would be watching their street alone. She knew that from the moment Mytho had raised his plan to her a few days prior. While she typically made a point to listen to the concerns of the Guild, she hadn't given them a chance to debate who would be putting themselves at the highest risk. Halora had decided while she was still confined in the Chapel that it would be her. It was only fair since she had decided on the plan without consulting anyone else first.

It was also only fair that she be the one to stain her hands with the blood of murder and allow theirs to remain clean. For that reason, she had two daggers on either side – one made of standard steel, the other tipped with silver, the only thing she knew could kill a vampire It had been crafted shoddily, however, and displayed that in the form of a hair-thin crack that ran along the length of the blade. She wasn't surprised it was all that could be mustered up at such short notice.

She ran her fingertip over the curve of the warm bottle tied to her belt. The bubbles popped inside hard enough to feel like a tiny beast trying to break free, angry that it had been contained in the first place. If silver failed, she knew that whatever alchemical sin Luciros had crafted wouldn't. The bottle let out a hiss, reminding her of why she had been afraid to think of what kind of man he would've grown into if she hadn't hand-picked him from the streets when he was still a teenager.

Halora glanced at Castle Skingrad as it sat atop the hill in the distance, looming over the chasm between it and the city. Her heart fell into her stomach at the sight of it, thumping as if she had just finished running the length of the city moments before.

Stupid. That was what she was. The success of the plan was placed on the hope that Mytho wouldn't make any snap decisions. He had been the closest to agreeable he was capable of being – a blessing she wouldn't take for granted – but how much longer before his urges to act out took over? He needed to be wrapped around her finger tight enough to convince him to move according to her directions but no tighter than that. Otherwise, the delicate balance she fought for would be undone in a second by his effortless mayhem. And what had she done to make sure he wouldn't?

Slapped him. Twice. Shouted at him. Told him in no uncertain terms that she wanted nothing to do with him anymore. After defending herself to Llovyn, insisting that her feeling weren't capable of clouding her judgment, she had let them do exactly that. Maybe that meant she was a hypocrite but what else would she have done? All those years, holding her tongue for every agonizing second of them, and finally, she had been given the chance to let him share in a drop of the pain she had felt.

She should have been happy. Seeing his eyes widen as they had done in whatever emotion he was feeling, his mouth hanging open as he tried to find a way to remove the guilt should have made her feel powerful. Instead, she only felt exhausted and, dare she say it, ashamed. Not for what she had said but for letting herself break down in front of that smug idiot.

" _I've never thought of you as a pawn,"_ he had said, _"not even once."_

Then what did he think of her as? What did all those years they spent together actually mean to him? Why did he toss them away with what appeared to be not a moment of hesitation? For all the arguing she had done with him, she was still no closer to understanding what had moved him to abandon her and Aressia.

And if she were treating him as a pawn now, what did that make her?

Halora rubbed underneath her eyes, feeling the sting as she closed them to shut out the distractions around her in favor of the ones inside.

Maybe it didn't matter what he thought of her. Maybe the years meant nothing or maybe they meant everything. Maybe it didn't matter what using his inflated sense of self-importance to her advantage made her. What she knew for sure was that she couldn't afford to let her aimless questioning distract her. She needed to focus on keeping the people she knew cared about her alive and well. Nocturnal willing, she wouldn't be burying another one of them come morning. And, Nocturnal willing another time, they wouldn't be burying her, either.

As she watched the alley below, a pair of guards followed it from one end to the other in a strange patrolling pattern. Halora had noticed as she made her way across the city that there appeared to be more of them than usual. At first, she figured it was simply due to her previous encounter with the Vigilante. It was the most popular gossip in town, after all. However, as she watched the guards below her, how they moved and what they chose to investigate, she found their behavior suspicious.

They were looking for something. Whatever it was, she wished them horrible luck in finding it.

The night dragged on, wrought with almost painful anticipation, drawing near to midnight as she watched alone. And as she watched, the winds grew angrier, lashing at her face.

That was when she knew he was near, almost as if she could feel it in her blood.

Halora turned and saw him standing atop the building across from her. With a deep breath, aware that doing so was a risk within itself, she dared to blink.

He was gone when she opened her eyes again. She turned once more and found him looming over her, the metallic odor thick on his body and clothes.

"You lived," the Vigilante said as he peered beyond her, appearing uninterested in her despite his closeness suggesting the opposite.

"Are you surprised?" she asked, shrugging. "I've dealt with men who had more than twice your bravado and every one of them lacked what they needed to back up their words."

The Vigilante looked down at her, his head cocked to the side like a curious dog. "No, I'm not surprised. If I had wanted it, you would've been dead before you knew I had arrived."

Halora pushed her hand against his chest, widening the gap between them before the stench being spread by his fluttering cloak became oppressive. "Then I suppose you've come here tonight to finish what you started, haven't you?"

"I want my ring," he growled. "You have it. Give it to me this instant and I'll allow you to see one final sunrise before I take your life."

She glanced up at the blackness underneath his hood, searching for the needle-point eyes she had seen before. "It sounds as if our positions have shifted since last we spoke," she said. "If I recall, you were the one who wasn't interested in bargaining. In fact, you gave me the impression you would rather skip speaking and resort to violence. What's caused you to go back on your word, I wonder?"

"I don't have time for your games, woman," the Vigilante said, closing the space between them again. "You will give it to me or I will kill you where you stand."

Halora squinted at him, probing the silence that followed his grand threat for insincerity.

Not a bit. Of course.

She sighed and turned her back to him, daring him to follow her across the rooftop. "It's a beautiful piece," she said and glanced over her shoulder. "I imagine it cost a small fortune to have it made. I wouldn't be surprised one bit if you weren't fond of speaking the number aloud. That is to say, you must be mad if you think I'm carrying it with me right now."

"If you don't have it, I'll find where you're keeping it," he said as he trailed behind her, his hand squeezing the hilt of his sword.

 _That's it. Just a little closer._ "I suppose you will eventually," she said. "I would be shocked if you weren't capable of that much. But how can you guarantee we won't have done away with it by then? Sold it to the highest bidder, perhaps? How can you even be sure it's still in Skingrad at all? For all you know, we might've sent it elsewhere."

The Vigilante, still silent, ceased following her and widened his approach.

 _No, not that way._ "More importantly," she said, stopping to face him head-on, "I'm wondering how you intend to look for it when you couldn't even see it right in front of you the other night."

For a brief second, almost too little time for her to notice, his steps faltered. She had him.

Standing tall and motionless, he allowed yet another stretch of silence fill the air. "I'll find it," he said, at last.

"I don't believe you truly understand the situation you're in," Halora said. "During our last encounter, you had the advantage of mystery on your side. Now, though, things have changed."

The Vigilante's arm tensed as he gripped his sword, looking as if he were fighting an urge to unsheathe it.

"I will admit," she continued, allowing her hand to linger near the silver-tipped dagger, "you did well covering your tracks. For a while, anyhow. Not a single one of my connections in the city had any idea where to begin looking. I thought that surely we had been outmatched and outwitted. I was almost ready to give in to your demands a few nights ago. You likely knew that as well and made yourself comfortable in your assured victory. But you see, you were hasty to claim that, which in turn caused you to make one enormous mistake."

"The only mistake I made was letting you live."

"Precisely," she said. "You had every chance to kill me and instead of doing so, you let me live. You let me return to the Guild with your ring and because of that misstep, we were able to find out who you really are. Rather, I should say _what_ you are; a vampire."

He slowly turned his head towards her, otherwise motionless until a shiver visibly wracked his body.

 _Almost there. Time to make it count._ "We also learned that you aren't just any vampire," she called out. "No, you aren't are you, _sire?_ "

Everything – the wind, the chirping of crickets, the distant fussing of cats in the alleyways – seemed to silence itself at that.

"You haven't any idea what you're talking about," he said. "You and your kind love speaking for the simple-minded pleasure of hearing your own meaningless words."

"We know the _truth_ , Janus," Halora said, forcing his name to be louder than all else, "every last one of us. So, I'm giving you one last chance to decide your next move. You can leave us be and go back into whatever crypt you crawled out of or..." Halora trailed off.

"Or you'll what?" he snapped.

"We'll go to the Vigil of Stendarr," she said. "After we've given them our proof, you'll spend the rest of your life in hiding or running until they finally catch you and burn you alive. Your choice."

He slowly raised his head and looked to the night sky, the winds calming around him. The silhouette of his jaw moved up and down as he muttered something she couldn't hear, leaving her to wonder how deep her words had struck. "No," he said. "No, I cannot allow you to do that. I've come too far to let those zealots sniff me out, too far to let them uproot me once more."

That was all the confirmation she needed. Halora reached for her dagger. A shadow fell on her and his hand was there first.

Janus tore the dagger from her belt and tossed it away, grabbing her by the throat with his other hand too quickly for her eyes to follow. He dragged her forward to the edge of the building as if he intended to drop her in the same manner he had done before.

Halora gasped for air and kicked at whatever her feet could reach first yet he shrugged off every strike.

"You and the rats that follow you display a kind of idiocy like no other," he said. "You think you can trap me? Overwhelm me with numbers alone? Surprise me when I can smell your foul blood from half a county away?" He lifted her close to his face, his sharpened teeth gritted in fury. "I know where all of you are right now. I could hunt down each and every one of you within the hour and have you dead in two."

Halora pulled at his severely clenched fingers as they dug into her flesh, kicking with all her strength and hoping one would make a difference.

"Idiocy! Pure idiocy! I haven't any patience left for your kind and your endless scheming!" He drew his blade and swirled it around in the air. "You've forced my hand. I'll uncover where you've been hiding and exterminate you like the vermin you are. Perhaps then, you will understand that nowhere in Skingrad is safe from me. Not above the ground nor below it."

Halora felt around for the bottle tied to her waist. "Tonight," she choked out, "I'm not going to be threatened by you!" The moment she felt the heat of the glass against her fingers, she ripped the bottle free and brought her hand around, aiming for his face. It was too close. Too close. But she didn't have another option.

The Vigilante swatted it from her hand, sending it over the edge of the building. "Your trick won't work," he said. "You're wasting the seconds you have left."

A flash of light erupted from below as if the sun had been torn from the sky and thrown into the streets, rocking the buildings and belching smoke and heat upwards. A pillar of fire roared into the night sky, crackling and showering the rooftop with crimson sparks as it reached its apex.

The Vigilante dropped her and slid away, his hand on his sword.

Halora rubbed the searing line around her neck, craning it back and forth. "That wasn't a trick," she said, her voice hoarse. "It's more of a rallying call."

The Vigilante watched the fireball flicker, the lower half of his face illuminated by its blood-red light, his sharpened teeth grinding in frustration. A column of wind formed around his feet and lifted him into the air, pulling smoke and embers into a vortex. "Then I needn't waste my time hunting you."

Halora drew her other dagger and spun it around, holding it reverse-grip. She inhaled slowly, the shallow thump of her heartbeat thundering to full speed. "And we won't have to tire ourselves out chasing you." She glanced back and forth at the street, feeling the winds speeding to gale-force.

 _If only they would get here soon!_

.~~~.

"Listen to me, lad," Mytho said as he placed his hand on Toren's shoulder. "I know you did well the other night, but things aren't going to be so simple this time around. I'm not sneaking in for a leisure stroll and a few laughs. I'm going to be causing a big enough commotion to stir up the entire castle."

Toren brushed his hand off and crossed his arms over his chest. "And when they come for you, won't you be needing an extra pair of hands?"

"Not if each of those hands isn't capable of dealing with two guards at once, I won't," Mytho said. "Now, remember what I told you? That when I go in, you need to make yourself scarce until I come to find you?"

"And wait behind the Chapel, yes," Toren said.

"That's a good man," Mytho said, patting him on the shoulder and then turning away. "Get your arse across town and keep an eye out for trouble along the way. That Vigilante character is likely on the prowl right about now and I'd hate for you to stumble into him."

Mytho approached Castle Skingrad and began to climb when Toren leaned against the wall, a hard look on his face.

"Sir, shouldn't you be with the Doyen?" he asked. "You were going to take down the Vigilante together, weren't you? Why are you here and not with her?"

Mytho held onto the wall and looked down at Toren, expecting him to drop the question with barely a glance. "I don't remember saying I was going to fight by her side," he said. "I'm sure I said quite the opposite, really. But if it'll set your mind at ease, what I'm going to do here will help her."

"More than lending your best skills to her?"

"Maybe not, but it'll do well for keeping the guards off her arse for a little while. They're going to be too busy trying to catch mine to go after the Guild's."

"But what if she can't deal with him alone?" Toren asked. "I don't know much about her, but aren't you the least bit worried after what happened the last time?"

Mytho resumed climbing and did his best to ignore the question in spite of Toren's repetition of the word sir to get his attention once again. Mytho had heard enough about Halora from the boy already. More than enough, actually, and plenty so that he figured he wouldn't be starved to speak about her for the rest of his extended stay in Skingrad. As much as he hadn't wanted to think about it, Toren had been curious about the two red and, as he phrased it, "distinctly hand-shaped" splotches on Mytho's face. After more than an hour of poorly hidden attempts to draw out the truth of the matter, Mytho decided to tell him where they had come from. He didn't tell him all that had happened, of course. He didn't know how. Blaming it on "differing opinions," however, was enough to satisfy him.

Mytho chuckled to himself as he climbed. _Differing opinions. That's a gentle way of putting it._

An entire day later – a day which was filled with idle talk and drilling Toren on his footwork – and nothing had been able to take his mind away from Halora for even a moment. Every word she said continued to echo in his mind like it were an empty cave, which he had begun to believe it may have been. If it weren't her razor-sharp insults and the revelations they brought, it was a sound far worse; the sobs she tried to swallow. Whenever he began to hear them, he didn't know what to do besides rub the disgracing marks on his face and wish he had been smarter.

No, not smarter. He wished he had been less cruel. To her and Aressia.

Now, he figured, all he could do was wish that things had been different. After what Halora had told him, he figured there wasn't going to be another chance. Aressia, maybe, but now that he had the time to think on the brazen promise he made to her, maybe it was just that and nothing more. Had it been presumptuous for him to think either of them would take him back? Was it his right to suggest something like that?

As Mytho reached the top of the castle, he felt the chill of the winds rushing through his hair. He looked over his shoulder at the city, lit up by lanterns and starlight, and wondered if Toren, in his strange bouts of perceptiveness, had a point.

What _would_ he do if Halora needed him?

 _No, stop right there,_ he thought.

That was the problem. She _didn't_ need him. She had the rest of the Guild at her back and, if her words were to be trusted, Aressia didn't need him, either. Maybe that was why she had stood atop the stairs that night in Anvil, looking down at him in silence.

Had she, too, given up on him?

He couldn't blame either of them if that was the painful truth of the matter. But perhaps, if the Divines were feeling incredibly generous and twice as merciful, they would find it in themselves to give him one last chance.

Or was that, too, a presumptuous hope?

Mytho ran his hands through his hair and let out a grumbled curse. He didn't need that kind of distraction. It wouldn't matter one bit whether they did or didn't want anything to do with him if he ended up dead.

He dug into his coat pocket and crinkled the pages depicting his two targets. That girl and her teacher, a pair of people he knew nothing about and didn't care to know, seemed like worthwhile trades for the sake of two people he did know. Perhaps then, he could start over and make things right. Rather, he would have the time and peace of mind to figure out where to begin. No matter what they thought of him – cruel or idiotic – he had a job to do and, by the Divines, he was going to do it.

And as his first move to that lofty goal, he needed to find the trail he had lost days before.

Mytho turned his back on the city and made his way across the roof of the castle until he came to his entry point's location. He climbed down the wall towards the window, the pick held between his teeth, and noticed something was different. Through the shutters, he could see light.

Someone was inside. They had to be. Ultimately, he figured it didn't matter and he didn't have time to waste worrying if it did. Mytho shoved the pick inside and pushed up until the window was unlatched. With a swing outward to gain momentum, he slipped inside, landing silently behind the stack of crates from before. The room was far brighter than he anticipated it would be. It was peculiar that it was, seeing as it was just a storage room for what seemed to be things worthy of discarding.

 _Who in their right damned mind would decide to spend any time in here?_ Mytho unsheathed his blades and moved along the stack of crates, his back flat against them, listening for the slightest of sounds besides the blood flowing through his head. He heard nothing, so he moved closer to the edge of the stack, barely enough to peek across the room. Still, nothing. As far as he could tell, he was alone. He worked his way to the corner of the stack – his swords held close to his sides – and stepped into the open.

A blade swooshed by his head, clipping off a few hairs before he could move out the way. He slid across the floor and flipped over the table in the middle of the room, landing upright on the other side.

"Ilawe was right," the guard said, circling around the table with his sword held out straight. "There was someone coming in and out of here."

Mytho flourished his swords at him and took a light step to the side. "And all he thought to send to stop me was you? Not a whole legion?"

The guard rolled his shoulders forward. "That's right, Fadus. If that's even your real name."

"Oh, you're the one that the jolly Count decided to sweat all over, aren't you?" Mytho asked. "The one that was in the entry hall?"

"I knew something wasn't right about you," the guard said. "I should've done something then. Before you could get in here and cause trouble."

"You've got a point there, lad." Mytho kicked the table and sent it sliding across the room towards the guard, forcing him to stop it before it knocked him down. He rushed forward and leaped over the table, his swords pointed out at the man, continuing until he had rammed through the open-face of his helmet.

"But the only difference it would've made is that you would've died on the rounded end of a broomstick instead," Mytho said as he removed his bloodied swords and turned on his heel. Coming from outside the room, he could already hear the thundering of metal footsteps approaching.

It looked like he wasn't going to have any trouble drawing attention to himself this time.

He ran to the door and kicked it twice, breaking it free of its hinges. With a third kick, he slammed the door on the unwitting guard standing behind it. The other thrust his sword out, missing in a spectacular fashion. Mytho swept along the wall and jabbed his blades at the weak points behind the knees of the guard's armor. The guard let out a cry and dropped to the ground, his legs too damaged to hold him up any longer.

The other guard was busy trying to lift the door. Mytho turned and jumped on him, crushing him as he continued onto the other side. As Mytho ran down the corridor, one guard howled his face red while the other he had left to struggle underneath the heavy door shouted for him to stop.

Tonight, there wasn't going to be any stopping. Not until the job was done. He had waited too damned long and now it was time to get what he came to the city for in the first place.

As he ran through the castle corridors, he came across all the types that inhabited it; from servant girls chattering in peace that were horrified to have their conversation suddenly disrupted as he rushed by them, to members of the Count's very own court who screeched for a guard. And more guards they would have. Too many that Mytho didn't care to number them. As he ran, he cut down any that stood in his path, rarely killing any but leaving a trail of wounded men and broken decorations he used during the scuffles. After seeing the Count so flustered over comparatively minuscule crimes, Mytho regretted that he wouldn't see the man's face in the morning when he realized what chaos had engulfed the place overnight. With people like Toren in the back of his mind, people who did their best with nothing while the Count lived in excess, Mytho almost contemplated letting himself get caught just to watch Ris squeal over having his showy house ruined.

Almost.

Soon, the entire castle was caught up in a wave of panic. The guards seemed to have trouble organizing themselves as they rushed here and there, sometimes missing him entirely with just a simple but effective maneuver that was slipping into an unlocked room and waiting until they had passed. Everything was going exactly as Mytho planned, leaving him almost unbothered the closer he came to Ilawe's room.

When he reached the hall with the servant's quarters, he found it empty and nearly silent. Not a single guard awaited him although he could hear them running and shouting at each other in the other parts of the castle. As he walked down the hallway, slowing his pace to catch his breath after so much running, Mytho came along an open window. He casually glanced out of the side of his eye as he passed, expecting to see the city as it always was, when he spied something different. Mytho walked backward and leaned on the windowsill, hardly able to believe what he was seeing.

A shimmering ball of red was hovering over the city, pulsating and throwing sparks all over. It floated there in the sky for a moment longer before it fizzled out and allowed the stars to shine on.

It had to be the signal. Someone had gotten too jumpy and sent it off too early. Or maybe they had been unfortunate enough to run afoul of the Vigilante.

As pretty as the sight was, it was not his problem anymore. The castle was now in a tizzy, meaning his part of the plan was finished. The guards were going to be busy for the next few hours trying to weed him out so they could arrest or execute him. He had held up his end of the deal with Halora. Whatever happened now was in her and her drone's hands.

He didn't need to worry one bit. Not even if it was her that had to face the Vigilante.

Mytho left the window and approached Ilawe's door, knocking first before he kicked it in.

"Wake up, milord," he said, adopting his Fadus persona as he strode into the room, "S'me! I've come to talk with ya, I 'ave! Come on out!"

The door shut behind Mytho, leaving him in total darkness and stillness.

Stillness. That was odd.

If his exchange with the Count was any indication, Ilawe appeared to be the steely type. Mytho didn't expect him to shrug off an intruder and continue sleeping, however. He felt along the wall, tripping over a piece of furniture as he searched for a sconce. His knuckles bumped against something at chest level and he ran his finger over the length of it.

 _Goat horn,_ he noted. He dug around in his coat pocket for his flint, hoping he wasn't about to start a fire that would burn the whole castle down, and lit the sconce.

The room brightened, revealing the rather luxurious quarters of Castle Skingrad's very own steward. A bright rug, tassels and all, covered the floor, topped by the amenities he expected to see; a wardrobe and writing desk stacked high with papers and notes Mytho figured he would give a cursory read of if Ilawe wasn't inclined to be helpful. Pushed against the wall was a large bed fit for the king – or one-half of Skingrad's Count – surrounded by thick curtains.

Mytho approached the bed, listening for the sound of breathing on the other side and still heard nothing.

 _Still sleeping?_ He yanked the curtains aside, a sword held in one hand, forming the first word of the cheeky greeting he had been practicing for the occasion.

That word froze on his lips as he realized he wasn't going to be using it.

The bed was empty and Ilawe was nowhere to be found. In fact, it looked as if it hadn't been used in quite a while, given the thick layer of dust that covered the bed.

Mytho stepped back and traced his eyes around the room. There wasn't anywhere the man could've been hiding, so where was he? Had he heard the chaos and already escaped? As he puzzled those questions, Mytho found that neither would've explained the lack of anything denoting Ilawe spent any time in the room.

But why wouldn't he be in his chambers in the dead of night? The Count was surely in his own so what duties would Ilawe have at this hour?

The words the first guard Mytho encountered earlier in the night sounded off in his head like a crack of thunder. Ilawe had been expecting him and told the man to wait in that room. But how could he have known to do so? The other night, when he and Toren had scouted Skingrad Castle for a safe route, no one had been aware of their presence.

 _Except…_

Mytho walked over to the writing desk and picked up the first paper, immediately tossing it away when he noticed it was little more than a waste of his time. He threw page after page, book after book aside until more of the desk's contents were on the floor than they were on the desk itself, coming up empty-handed when it was over.

There had to be something.

Just as Mytho was about to give up his search and leave the room in ruins, he spied something peeking out from underneath the corner of the bed – a small, wooden box. He hoisted the box up, feeling the weight inside it shifting awkwardly as he held it against his stomach and carried it over to the desk. It landed with a thud and a curious slosh. He didn't waste any time smashing the lock off the tiny box, but he paused to take a deep breath before he opened it and wished his suspicion was going to be proven wrong.

Inside the box, neatly packed from corner to corner, were small bottles of red fluid. With a shaking hand that surprised him, Mytho took one of the bottles and opened it to take a whiff of what was inside, squeezing his eyes shut before he could make sense of the smell.

Blood. More than a dozen bottles filled with blood. From who, he could die and never know.

" _Ilawe. Imperial. His skin's as pale as a ghost. Dark hair. Always puts too much in it and slicks it back,"_ Toren's description of the man, so simple and so unimportant at the time, gradually began to crystallize in the most frustratingly delayed way.

" _Ah, and he wears an emerald ring on a thread around his neck."_

He shouted a curse at the empty room and threw the bottle away before he could vomit at the thought of its usage.

Mytho didn't bother to clean up the mess he had made. He gripped his swords and ran into the hallway, almost tripping over himself on the way out. He crashed against the windowsill, squinting and trying to remember where exactly the fireball had been.

 _Damn it, Hallie!_ he thought as he climbed out of the castle and began dropping down the wall as fast as he could without losing his grip. _Don't do anything stupid before I get there!_


	25. Cat and Mouse

25

.~~~.

Mytho let out a shout as he vaulted over the edge of the building and sailed freely through the air. He tucked into a roll as he landed and pushed off the ground to his feet again. As he slid to a stop on the rocky rooftop, he glanced back. The fury-stricken face of one of several guards that had dogged him all the way from Castle Skingrad peeked over the side. The others hadn't shown themselves yet but he was sure they were only a moment behind.

Mytho bounced up and down to prepare his muscles for another leap. "Come on, lads!" he called out to them. "You aren't going to catch me at such a pitiful pace! I'll be on the road again before you can get yourself over this mansion here!"

Enough curses to make a priest sick to his stomach poured from the first guard's mouth.

Mytho lowered himself to the ground and inhaled. deeply to fill his lungs with ample breath and bravery. With a sharp exhale, he ran to the edge. With another jump, he was airborne once more and leaving them far behind. He wouldn't need to waste the effort of worrying any longer.

Rather, there were no reasons to worry about them catching up. There were still plenty of other reasons to worry.

It hadn't taken Mytho much time at all to realize something was terribly wrong with Halora's plan. If he had to guess, she probably had something else in mind that didn't involve half the guardsmen in the city hunting the Thieves Guild while the rest chased after him. That was all he had seen unfolding on his way, however. By his count, she had lost four of her guildmates and maybe more than that if they truly were spread thin across the whole city. He had tried his best to save a few of them as he ran but with so many men aiming to kill him, he hadn't had much time to dawdle. He definitely didn't enough time to save every last one of them.

It was the painfully drab streets of Skingrad that had proved to be his biggest challenge, though. From the castle window, he had been able to tell quite easily where the fireball in the sky was. Now that he was deep in the Hightown District and near where he believed it had been, he was beginning to hope he wasn't about to spend half the night circling the same two streets in a fruitless search for Halora. She had to be somewhere. If she were acting as she usually would, she was likely exactly where she shouldn't be.

A tickle of worry cropped up inside his chest, making it feel light and airy before he quieted the feeling. He gritted his teeth as he ran and they ached as they clacked harshly together.

Halora wouldn't do anything stupid. She wouldn't get herself hurt. She was too damned stubborn to die that easily. She always had been.

But Mytho had to be sure.

It was supposed to be simple. He was to come to town, find information, and leave. He wasn't supposed to involve himself in her matters again – it only amounted to tragedy every time he did – but a piece of him that wanted to be afraid. That damnable, abhorrent piece he buried many times over wouldn't let him stay away. It wouldn't allow him to turn his back on her without giving him an exhaustive fight.

Hadn't he learned from the last time he had tried to stay close to her? Were the scars it left on her not enough proof for him?

He supposed he hadn't and perhaps he truly was the World's Most Idiotic Man. He couldn't be bothered to stick by her side and he couldn't find it within himself to be so heartless as to leave her for good. Until he was a smarter and kinder man, though, Mytho could make his stupidity and cruelty work for their shared benefit.

He dropped from the next ledge he came upon and landed on the balcony below. An ear-splitting scream blasted from the window behind Mytho and forced him back into the air. That was no place to catch his breath. He clambered onto the railing and ran the length of it. At the end of the rail, he leaped out and caught a windowsill. Continuing the motion, he twirled around and released his grip to drop a down a floor, four from the base of the building. He landed on a hanging planter and pushed himself against the window, figuring it was a good thing it was closed.

A snapping sound pierced the air. Mytho instinctively leaped forward before he had time to figure out the cause, causing the planter to split in two pieces. He stretched out his hand to cling to whatever would take him. Two floors down, he caught the very edge above a closed window. Pain shot up his arm and crossed his shoulder as he swung forward and crashed through the window. Shards of glass busied themselves by being scattered across the impassive wooden floor/

Mytho let out a groan as he rolled onto his side, dazed as he tried to regain the breath that had been forced out of his chest. Years ago, he would've shrugged off impacts like those without flinching. Now? Well, his back wasn't sore now but gods knew he would be nearly immobilized come morning. Massaging the lower portion of his spine, he pulled himself up on the wall and staggered to the open door across the room. He didn't bother to sneak any longer. Had he come through the house earlier in the night, perhaps, but not now. There wasn't enough coin in the Empire to give him that kind of patience.

He left the room and crossed the hallway as he headed to the stairs at the end. There, he began his descent to the bottom floor. He kept a hand on one of his swords and the other on the railing while he scanned each shadowy corner with his eyes. Too many harsh lessons about how dangerous a horrified owner with a vase and a mean streak had bored the habit into him. He expected _something_ , and yet it wasn't a surprise attack that disrupted the silence. It was a pungent odor that filled the air and caused him to stumble backward. He pinched his nostrils as his eyes burned and continued onward to the front door. Just as he set his hand on the knob, however, a peculiar sensation radiated goosebumps across his skin.

He was being watched. The inside of the house appeared to be quiet and, dare he say it,peaceful, though.

With all that was going on outside, that shouldn't have been the case. "Come out!" he said as he let go of the doorknob so he could grip his other sword. "I'm not one of the guards!"

The floorboards creaked behind him and he glanced over his shoulder at the cause of the noise.

"What in Nocturnal's name are you doing here, Phantom?" Luciros asked as he stepped out from behind an opened door and leaned on it for support. His face was coated with grime and his clothes were torn in slash-like patterns, stained with blood. "Madam Doyen told me you were supposed to be in Castle Skingrad creating a distraction."

"Trying to fix what's gone awry, that's what," Mytho said, shaking his head. "The plan has been ruined. You're wasting your time trying to keep it alive. Ilawe knew what was happening and he set a trap for me in the Castle."

Luciros' eyes, lacking any sort of spirit, traced over Mytho. "It appears his trap was a failure, then, seeing as you're standing here with me."

"That's just it," Mytho said. "He didn't fail because he didn't intend on having me killed, I don't think. Or maybe he did. I don't know. Either way, he wanted to keep me out of the way so he could deal with the Guild."

Luciros made a face. "What do you mean 'deal' with us?"

"I mean he's out there right now kicking your collective arses," Mytho said, pursing his lips to keep from sneering at his own failings. "Because the Vigilante isn't just Janus Hassildor. He's Ilawe, too. That's why the guards are turning the city over to find all of you. He figured out that we were making a move and alerted the guards before we could even begin."

"Gods damn it," Luciros spat. "And you're sure they're the same man?"

"I found his secret stash of blood bottles, so I'm rather sure of it," Mytho said, reaching out for the doorknob as he prepared to leave. "Now, I've got more important things to do than stand here and chat with you, lad. Hallie's out there somewhere and I intend to find her. You and the rest of the Guild should just go back home and hope for the best. Unless you're willing to fight to the death tonight, that is."

"Wait!" Luciros said before he could exit the house. He pushed off the door and limped towards Mytho, his face tight with visible pain as he detached a small bottle from his belt. "You may need this."

Mytho nearly took the bottle but retracted his hand when he felt something unexpected; heat enough to warm his hand through his gloves. "Eh, is this a trick? You aren't trying to off me, are you?"

Luciros shook his head. "It's something I made. Originally, I had intended to hand out several bottles of it to the rest of the Guild but the batch wasn't quite as I expected it to be."

"Meaning?"

"That's the only bottle of it left. Madam Doyen had the other and she's already used it, obviously."

Mytho gingerly took the bottle and held it at an arm's length as he wished he had something else to carry it in. Maybe a leather bag or a tiny crate on a long pole. "So that fireball that lit up the sky was her doing?"

"I'm afraid so," he said. "I begged her to only use it if the situation became too extreme to consider any other options. Since she did, I can only assume the worst has taken place and the Vigilante found her first. To be frank, I assumed he would."

Mytho tied the bottle to the belt around his waist. "Ah, that's my Hallie. Always getting herself buried waist-deep in –"

"One more thing. If you manage to find her before..." He trailed off and swallowed hard as he propped himself up on the wall. "If you find Madam Doyen and she is still safe and sound, I would be very appreciative if you could keep a close watch on her for me."

Mytho raised an eyebrow at him.

"Something has changed in her since her encounter with the Vigil – er, Janus Hassildor, the other night," he said. "I can say that with a fair degree of certainty."

"How so?"

"When I went to see her in the Chapel, I brought with me a bottle of wine as a treat. I wasn't there long, but by the time I left, she had already drank half of it." Luciros laid flat against the wall and lowered himself to the floor. "And, unless my eyes were fooling me, she didn't appear to be drunk in the slightest. She actually seemed rather energized and not relaxed like I hoped she would be."

"So what are you getting at?"

"Please, let me finish," he said, holding his hand up. "I didn't think much of it at the time until she mentioned to me the next morning as we walked back to the hideout that it must've been watered down."

"Was it?"

"That would be impossible. It had never been opened. That aside, she apparently finished the whole bottle and didn't even have a headache in the morning. At first, I wanted to agree with her deduction that it must have been ruined simply because I had no other reasonable explanation for the matter. However, I noticed something on our way back to the Guild that I haven't been able to stop thinking about."

Mytho cracked the door and peered out into the street to check for the guards that had been tailing him earlier. Unsurprising to him, the street was empty. "Go on."

"Every time we passed into the sunlight, she would express her distaste about how bright it was and how she was feeling as if she were burning up," Luciros said. "She then asked if it were the antidote working through her system, to which I answered yes despite that being a lie. It should have run its course before sunset the day before."

"Look, lad, this is a fine story, but if you want me to find her before –"

"And when I convinced her to let me check her pulse, I found that it was frighteningly weak," he said, his tone conveying a carefully restrained anxiety. "Later that night, I checked it again and felt it change anywhere from far faster and stronger than it ought to be, to impossible to discern in less than two minutes. But Madam Doyen didn't show any signs of distress, not even mild irritation over my continued pressing on her wrist."

"And?"

Luciros looked down and shifted to the side, his face pulled into a tight grimace as he moved. "Don't you see? There's something wrong with her," he said, letting out a groan as he settled again. "I'm afraid I don't know what it is but I'm sure that she isn't as she should be."

Mytho leaned against the door, his arms crossed over his chest. "So what is it you want me to do? If there truly is something wrong with Hallie, watching over her shoulder isn't going to do much good."

Luciros buried his head in his hands and exhaled between his palms. "Have you ever had someone you look up to, Phantom? And I don't mean someone you simply harbor respect for. I mean someone you would model yourself after, someone you would take pride in being compared to whether or not such a thing was meant as a compliment or an insult."

He raised his head, allowing Mytho to see he had paled to the point of grayness. "Madam Doyen is that person to me. She taught me everything I know, gave me a reason to live when I had none, and made me feel as if I had regained the family I had lost. Call it whatever you like; respect, reverence, worship, the term you use matters little to me because none of them can affect how I feel. And that feeling terrifies me, Phantom. Because I've already watched more than one of my friends die tonight and I'm afraid of what will become of me if I lose her, too."

Mytho clenched his jaw tight and his fists even tighter. "You do realize who you're asking for help, don't you? Last we spoke, you were telling me off."

Luciros, through the pain and paleness on his face, managed to force a smile. "I do know, in fact. That's precisely why I'm asking. Because if what she's told me about you, then not a damned thing on Nirn can get in your way when you want something. And you want to find her, don't you?"

Such a frustrating smile, filled with an ego too big for one person to carry. Mytho wondered how someone could possibly have such an inflated sense of self-importance. "You and her both," he said, exhaling the disconcerting tension in his chest as he released his balled fists, "are going to drive me absolutely mad one of these days. Fine. I'll keep an eye on her but I'm not making any promises. Understand?"

"Please, you can drop that act of yours," Luciros said. "I can see right through it. Why else would you be running across the city and not out of town if you truly were as apathetic as you pretend to be? Why would you have taken part in this ill-fated operation of ours? Forgive me but I don't buy into your front. Not one bit."

Mytho muttered a curse under his breath and turned to leave. "You aren't going to keel over on me, are you? She'll have my hide if she finds out I left you here to die."

Luciros' laugh was breathy and quiet. "Do you honestly believe I'd be done in by these half-wit guards so easily? They may have managed to fracture a rib or two mine, but I gave much worse. If you're curious," he gestured towards the open door at the end of the hall, "go and see for yourself how the human body looks when it's been reduced to a viscous puddle. You've probably smelled it already, haven't you?"

 _Gods above._ Mytho gagged as he ripped the door open and hurried outside. "No wonder Hallie keeps you pent up in that hideout all day," he said over his shoulder, his stomach lurching as he tried to forget everything he had just heard and smelled. In fresh air again, he inhaled deeply and pushed the choking stench out of his system.

He scanned over the empty street in front of him, his hands cupped over his ears to listen for a sound to make a run for. _Now, love, where are you hiding?_

A howl of air came from a what sounded to be two streets over. There. Not that far at all.

Mytho dashed across the street to the buildings and began to climb, tearing at the stone wall hand-over-hand. It was like chasing her all over again, their little game of cat and mouse. She always did find a way to lure him back in just as he began to believe they were done.

The wind screeched once more, prodding him to quicken his pace with its sound.

Not that far but not that close, either.

He was going to be cutting it close, he figured. But that was when he did his best work.

.~~~.

A furious pillar of wind ripped through the alleyway crashed into Halora's back, throwing her face down into a puddle of murky water. She scrambled to her knees. Her lungs and heart ached in her chest as she tried to clear her throat of the putrid wash. Her eyes blurred and stung from the force of her coughing and a throbbing pressure strained the inside of her skull. The pebbles embedded deep in her palms – pointed like miniature daggers spouted from the ground – shifted underneath her bloodied skin and burrowed deeper still as she put her weight on them to struggle to her feet. With a frail breath scarcely able to be felt as it traveled through her gritted teeth, she pushed off into a sprint towards the gaping mouth of the alleyway.

She didn't make it far before her legs began to wobble too much to keep her upright. Halora slumped against the wall and wiped her arm across her drenched forehead. When she pulled her away, a red smear covered her sleeve from her wrist to her elbow. At that, her vision blurred again, the scent of blood – _her_ blood – too thick in her nostrils to continue on without pause.

How had the tables turned so quickly? One moment she was the victor of an agonizingly long war. The next, she was helplessly fleeing from a ravenous beast that didn't understand the definition of mercy. She had become little more than a rabbit trying to escape a lion and she was failing. Badly.

The sound of heaving footsteps echoed down the windy corridor. A shout followed suit. Two guards rushed across the opening at the end opposite of her and missed her presence entirely.

That was how. That was the reason her plot had been unraveled in mere minutes. That and being beaten until she was barely able to walk and being pushed far beyond that.

There were guards everywhere. Every street, every corner. Somehow, they had known what was happening before it had even begun. Everything was falling apart and she couldn't do anything to stop it. She had found three of her guildmates' bodies already. Their heads were elsewhere, which had left her with no means of identifying them, but she hadn't let them go without properly avenging them. No, she had slit the throats of three guards as she fled from the Vigilante, her ethics and code be damned.

It wasn't enough. It wasn't even close. They were still horribly outnumbered and separated by what felt like entire worlds. The plan was still failing but she would take every consequence her actions brought to her and then some. If it meant saving just one of them, she would do it. On a night like this one, there weren't heroes nor villains. There was no right and no wrong. There were only survivors and victims claimed by a grisly fate.

She wrapped her arm around herself and pushed against her ribs. Electric pain radiated from her own touch, forcing her hands to shake uselessly as she felt she was coming undone from the inside out. She swore that by every Divine and every Daedra, every last worshiped god and those forgotten, she wouldn't be one of the victims tonight.

Halora clenched her fists and plodded forward, one unsteady footstep at a time, with one hand on the wall to keep her swaying movements steady. First, she would return to the hideout. She would take a moment to bind her wounds and clean the blood splattered all over her. Then, she would smash a lantern on the ground and burn everything – every ledger, every record of every day – all of it. If he truly could smell her blood from half a county away, he would find her again by dawn. He would find the hideout soon after if there was still one left to find. Anyone he hadn't slaughtered by then would be hunted by Skingrad's guards and executed anyway.

For their sake, she wouldn't let that happen. No one else would suffer because of her mistake. There were already too many deaths caused by her actions. The last she cared to let happen would be her own.

A gust blew again, tugging her forward like open arms. At the end of the alleyway ahead, the Vigilante dropped gracefully from above. In one hand, he held his sword. It was glossy and bright crimson even in the dark. In his other hand, he held the lifeless body of one of her guildmates, brutalized beyond all recognition, their skin shriveled and gray.

"Have you grown tired of running yet?" he asked as he tossed the corpse away. "You must have realized by now that you're trapped. There isn't any place left for you to hide. No place I cannot reach you." With a flourish of his sword, he began walking towards her. He crossed the puddles without disturbing their surface, ghost-like in his presence. "With each drop of blood I shed, I grow stronger. With each minute you spend running, you grow weaker. You grow closer to succumbing to your wounds. Do you not realize this?"

Halora tried to turn and run, yet her legs wouldn't budge. If she dared to move them again, she feared they would lose the strength to hold her up. "What..." she began as she tried to find enough air to inhale. "What would Rona say if she knew what you were doing?"

The Vigilante stopped. His silence returned in favor of his growing inclination to taunt her until it was broken by a mutter too quiet for her to hear. "Never speak her name," he said in a tone lower than the grave. "It doesn't belong on lips tainted with deceit and arrogance like yours."

Halora shuffled backward as he continued advanced towards her. She glanced around her for something to defend herself with. Nothing. "And what you're doing is better? All of this killing and for what? So you can feed?"

"As if I need your acceptance," he said. "Rona never understood what we had become. Neither did the rest of the Empire. She feared herself, for our lives, and refused to acknowledge herself for what she truly was. She spent entire days and nights pleading for the Divines to strike her down. And yet none listened to her cries." He reached to his hood and tugged at it from the top, revealing his pale complexion underneath. His appearance was carefully kept. His hair was smooth and slick against his head, his chin clean-shaven, and his demeanor as regal as she imagined he would have been centuries ago. "For a time, I, too neglected what I had become. I wanted to believe that despite the circumstances, I was still the same as I was. I refused to feed. I refused the powers it brought me and thought a lifetime of debilitation would be acceptable."

With a snap of his finger, a ripple traveled over his face much like a droplet of water landing in a pool. The masquerade he wore vanished in its wake, revealing the monster that lurked behind it. Scarlet vessels, pulsating and engorged with the blood he had stolen, snaked over his skin and darkened around his pitch-black eyes. His teeth, thick and elongated to the point of hardly fitting inside his mouth, were stained with a red so deep it seemed to make all colors around it fade. "And it cost me dearly," he continued, pointing towards his eyes. "For me, my vision. For Rona, it cost her more."

"And you killed her for it?"

Janus stopped again and his face hardened. "I set her free," he said. "With the Saint's help, I gave her what she desired and what the Divines wouldn't. She was cured, yes, but after so long without feeding, the return to normalcy was too much for her frail body to bear."

"Then why are you punishing us?" Halora shouted, backing away as he grew closer. "We've done nothing to you!"

"Because through losing her, I came to know the truth," he said, his footsteps heavy and filled with latent fury. "The Divines are cruel and uncaring. They would let us spill our blood in their names a million times over and enjoy the spectacle. Daedra, Aedra, they are the same breed; selfish, petulant children with infinite power. They are only interested in what we can do to puff up their pride. In saving her, they would gain nothing. And so they did nothing."

Halora stumbled and fell, landing on her tailbone. She winced as pain crept up her spine. Janus drew closer until he was standing over her.

"And in retaliation, I turned my back on them," he said, squatting down. "I realized that their justice is flawed. Their rule is poisoned. If they would allow my Rona to die in misery and fear, they mustn't be worthy of our devotion. The righteousness they claim to espouse must be shallow. Instead, it is up to us, as the mortals who claimed the world in their callous departure from creation, to see it kept clean. Beginning with the scurrying vermin that have taken up residence in my city."

Halora rolled onto her side when and planted her hand on the ground. "You've lost your damned mind," she said, digging her broken fingernails into the stony street. "This isn't justice. It's a genocide. And you're no more than an animal."

"Then you, too, should blame the gods for bringing about these circumstances," he said as he picked her up. "As in their haste to curse my existence, they mistakenly gave me the power to see true, impartial justice through to its fitting end."

Halora let her arms hang limply by her side as she raised high enough that her feet could no longer reach the ground. Nothing she had with her would do a thing to harm him. She had already been taught that twice over. Her fingers were ice-cold and tingling, her eyes barely able to focus on the Janus' face in front of her.

His face was that of failure. Bitter, stomach-turning failure with a touch as murky as the blackest abyss. So many lives lost because of her. Every one of them looked to her for guidance and now wandered listlessly in whatever world came after. For all her efforts to stop them from slipping away, she hadn't even come close to succeeding. They had warned her. They had told her she was wrong and still she pushed them away and trusted only herself and her pride. She had started the night with arrogance. It was only fitting it end this way.

Perhaps it truly was justice that he was bringing to her, poetic and savage justice for leading them to their deaths.

 _Ari._ Only her name echoed in Halora's mind as the Vigilante drew her close. In the muddling darkness, she could see her face, so clear she could almost reach out and touch it. _Please, be safe._

And then, his face joined the darkness with her. His smug, idiotic smile. His self-aggrandizing nature. But with those came the pieces of him she had nearly forgotten. The precious moments when he hadn't pushed her away and instead let her see what was tucked away behind that teasing smirk and buried beneath his grandeur. The moment when she learned of his only fear. His arms tight around her, his voice a gentle sea-breeze in her ear.

Halora squeezed her eyes shut as wet streaks ran down her cheeks. Whether it was blood or tears, she didn't know. She only knew that she was dying.

She went rigid as Janus' teeth sliced into the base of her neck and burrowed deep into her muscles. As he held her, however, she felt her muscles release their resistance and soften until they couldn't manage as little as a twitch. A cloud of numbness engulfed he arm, making her wonder if it were there anymore.

Until she landed on that very arm, the hardness of the ground beneath her.

"Absolutely foul!" Janus shouted, doubling over as he coughed up thick clumps of red onto the ground. "What have you done to yourself? Your blood! It's rotten!"

Halora could only imagine she had the energy to laugh. At least she would have that as her final defiant act.

Janus wiped his arm over his mouth before he spat up again. "Never mind that," he growled, lifting his sword high as he walked clumsily towards her again. "I can make do with the rest."

A shadow fell from the sky, its wings flapping in the wind. Janus locked his arms in a cross in front of his body. With a whirling motion, the shadow launched him away and landed in front of Halora. He raised to full height, pitch-black like the night in a solid form, and covered her like a shroud. A sword was on either side of him, drawn already and slick with blood. Dust and soot covered his back. At his hip, a flame trapped in a bottle raged against its little confinement. He brushed his hand over it and glanced over his shoulder, a smirk on his face.

"Damn you," Mytho said breathlessly, his voice hoarse in his throat. "You just had to go and make me care. Didn't you, Hallie?"


	26. The Cold Sun

26

.~~~.

 _There was no air, no light, no life in that place. Frigid, with only a blackened hole in the sky that provided no warmth looming above. A distant growl – a storm beyond the horizon – rumbled across the vast emptiness before her. It carried with it a revolting yet majestic atmosphere. A sense of reverence found in the nothingness would've made her believe a king was on approach, his gaudy clothing trailing behind him and caked in dirt. The air stirred around the growl, forming into language, and the void was tinted with crimson._

" _You are..." the growling said before it fell silent again, leaving her alone. "You should...Make haste…Before the...swallows you whole. Make haste. Make haste. Do it now. It is in your nature to..."_

 _It faded, letting the dark and silence return, freezing her again until she felt brittle._

 _Falling._

 _Falling into pieces._

Halora blearily opened her eyes to a pitiful smattering of light so dim it was as if she were peeking through a keyhole a world away. She gasped a small breath into her heavy lungs, the air cracking her dried lips to the point of splitting them down the middle. Even then, the air was stale – rotten with the stench of blood to the point of turning her stomach – and hardly worth the effort to choke down. In throbbing waves, the pain returned. It tightened her muscles into cramped knots and clamped her mouth shut as she fought to keep from writhing.

 _Thirsty,_ she thought involuntarily, licking her lips as if her tongue wasn't a dry wad of soil flopping in her mouth. As she withdrew it, she nicked it on something. A bit of debris embedded in her face somewhere, she figured.

 _Vile,_ her tastes insisted. Halora had bitten her tongue before but the taste of the wound then hadn't made her want to gag. The debris must've been in her mouth. Awful, but that had to be it.

As the ringing in her ears lessened, the quick pattering of footsteps in a sprint took its place. The breeze was rushing around her, but it lacked the fury it had before. Instead, it was frantic, almost fearful. Around her, holding her tightly, were someone's arms. She could feel them breathing. Halora squinted at their face, trying to focus through the blur and dark long enough to make out the muddled details.

 _Mytho,_ her mind told her. Although, she wasn't sure of it. As if acting of their own volition, her fingers – numb and glacially cold – curled around his clothes in a search for warmth.

There. Blistering. Boiling beneath, so close yet kept just out of her reach, she had found it. In him. She needed more to be satisfied but it was enough to keep her anchored. Halora tried to force out a word of thanks through her parched throat. Nothing came of it but a crack of her voice.

It was enough to get his attention. With a downward flick of his eyes, he took note of her. "You've gotten yourself into a fine mess, haven't you?" Mytho said through measured breaths. "Making everything so damned complicated all the time."

Halora tried once more to speak and still, nothing came of it. So, she glared at him. With that, she found that even the muscles in her face were sore and weak as if they had been overexerted.

"Do you have any idea how difficult it is to run away from an angry vampire while carrying your arse at the same time?" he asked, craning his neck to look over his shoulder. "I'll answer that. It's much harder than you'd think it would be. Especially when the damned thing prefers flying above walking like the rest of us. And you must be determined to scare me to death, too. If you stop breathing one more time, I-I'll..." Mytho stopped at the corner of a building looming above them both. He pulled her close, the muscles in his arms hard around her as he waited in silence for something.

 _How strange._ She had never seen him so tense, not even when he had just avoided death by a hair. He always met danger with a wry grin and a crude joke, not by winding himself so tightly he was on the verge of snapping. Had he always been this way?

When whatever he was watching had passed, he looked down at her, a strange wide-eyed expression on his face. "Just stay with me, will you?" he asked, his voice shuddering. "Please. I, er, can't go back to Aressia knowing I let you die. Lass would have my head hanging over her fireplace. If I'm lucky, that is."

 _Why?_ Why did his voice seem so weak saying that? Halora clenched her fist tightly around the collar of his coat and tugged with the little strength she had. She had to know the reason. If only she could speak.

Without a word from her, however, his expression softened as if she had indeed said something. A slight smirk turned up the corners of his lips – that damned, infuriating smile of his making a grand return at the worst of times, as always – and he let out a small chuckle. "You really are the most stubborn woman in Tamriel, aren't you?" he asked as he began to run again. "You'd look the gods in the eyes and tell them off before you let them spirit you away, wouldn't you? I suppose that's one of the things I've always..."

A peculiar emotion flashed across his face, leaving his statement frustratingly unfinished. If Halora didn't know any better, she would've believed by his expression that he had just solved all of life's secrets and didn't know how to explain them to anyone, perhaps not even to himself. But there was something else, something she didn't understand at all. A look that didn't suit him had cropped up, ripping his aloof demeanor to shreds in a fashion so showy it could fit only him. For a while longer, he continued to run. His face was vacant of anything else meaningful, leaving her wondering why he looked equal parts amazed and horrified.

Until he began to smirk again. "Aye, it's good you're this way," he said, pressing his lips together as if he were gnawing at them from the inside. "I couldn't ask for more, to tell the truth. I don't have to feel like the only person on Nirn too stupid to quit with you around. It'd be awfully lonely to live that way, aye?"

Halora tugged at his coat again. That wasn't what he was going to say, was it? It didn't make sense. He had to finish his statement if only to grant what she was sure would be the last thing she ever wanted. _Just say it, you idiot!_

"I'm taking you to that apprentice of yours," Mytho said coolly. "If he doesn't feel inclined to melt the flesh off anyone else, he should be able to keep you safe while I finish this. I know you'd probably argue with me if you could but just this once, I'd appreciate it if you would trust me. Can you do that, Hallie?"

She let her arm go limp and fall, a sound defeat making her wish she could pout without hurting something. It wasn't as if she had a choice in the matter. If by chance she managed to survive until dawn, she could only hope her ears would also survive the round of his gloating she was in for.

A part of her that was buried deeper than she cared to dig wished she had the energy to smile at that thought. The rest of her only wanted to sigh.

The winds, riddled with rage and hatred, pulled at Halora as he carried her, reminding her of the grim truth of the situation. She couldn't forget, however, no matter how hard she wished she could. It was a fool's errand they were on and nothing more. Mytho couldn't outrun Janus, he had to have known that. No matter where they fled, Hassildor would find them. He would hunt them down and suck the life from them until there wasn't any left, just as he had already done to her, as he had done to so many others.

He would leave that awful voice in their heads, the cold marching over them with it.

She wasn't safe with Mytho. She wasn't safe with anyone. Skingrad was slowly becoming a graveyard and one that was eager to welcome her into it. All that would come of this senseless running would be a delayed burial for them both.

Welling up her voice in her chest, Halora let a single word simmer until it could find its way to her mouth. "Why?" she asked. The sound of her voice was unrecognizable to her, distant and like a whisper. At first, she wondered if he even heard her as he continued to run, his eyes locked on the roads and alleyways as he weaved through them.

"You ought to know by now, Hallie," he said, smirking as if he knew a response like that was capable of only one thing; being irritating. "I've always done what I've wanted. It's never made a difference to me whether anyone agrees with me or not. I'll live my life the only way I know how to. Anything less and it stops being mine, I figure. And right now, what I want to do is keep your pretty head connected to the rest of you. I'm rather fond of it being that way."

That wasn't what she was asking, damn it. She wanted to know why he hadn't finished what he was saying, why he hadn't told her what being stubborn had to do with anything. It seemed her only option was to cling to life until she could wring the words out of him. He couldn't just be agreeable for once in his life. With a grumble, she did her best to relax and focus on anything but her battered body, her eyes drifting closed.

" _He's close,"_ the voice said in the moment of silence it had been given. _"He could sustain you. Make haste, before..."_

A curious breeze tickled her skin.

Her eyes flung open to see the ground above her and Mytho curling his body around her. For a moment, the world turned black again, not even the cold voice there to keep her company.

When Halora came to, Mytho was standing in front of her.

Ahead of him, floating in the whipping winds, was Janus.

He had found them.

.~~~.

"Answer me this," Janus called out, his voice a hiss of rage as he fluttered in the air, held aloft by the breeze. "Do you align yourself with her? With her Guild?" As he landed, another gust of wind picked up and swirled leaves and pebbles alike into a vortex. "Speak quickly. My patience for these games has worn thin."

Mytho shrugged and relaxed his hands on his swords as he peeked over his shoulder at Halora. He hated leaving her there on the ground – filthy as it was – but he wasn't interested in trying to fight with her thrown over his shoulder. That had almost cost them both dearly and he wasn't about to let it happen again. She was still alive, at least, given that she was looking right at him. Visibly delirious, of course, but still very much alive. For now. He would've said things were getting better if she wasn't little more than a jump or one quick step and slide in Janus' case away from her death.

"With her?" he asked, gesturing back at Halora. "Aye, unfortunately. With her Guild? I'd rather you suck me dry here and now than confess to something so awful. I'm afraid I don't play well with others. Especially not those who pretend to be holier than they truly are and have the gall to tell me to act the same."

Janus cocked his head to the side, his lips drawn tightly over his jutting fangs. "Why, then? Why did you enter Castle Skingrad the other night? If you weren't there for thievery's sake, what did you hope to find in that place?"

Mytho kicked a stone across the ground, bouncing it from the wall and into the vortex.

With a spin of his blade, Hassildor sent it back.

The toothy bastard was quick, Mytho would admit that. "You, actually," he said, taking his first step towards him. "I'll be frank, this isn't the way I figured our first meeting would go, Ilawe. First formal meeting, I mean. Or would you prefer Janus? The Vigilante? I guess it doesn't matter all that much, does it?"

He continued to inch closer to Hassildor, each step amplifying the bloody stench in the air, choking out the sounds around them until all fell silent. He came to a stop just below Janus and peered deep into the darkness of his eye sockets, watching at the veins around them rippled.

Janus looked on, his gaze unseeing and his expression cold and hard. "You speak those names as if they matter to me," he said as he brushed his tongue against his fangs, slicking them with his saliva. "So, what is it you intend to do next with this discovery you've made? Threaten to reveal my identity to the public? Menace me with words when you've not a shred of credibility to your name? When you're no more than a nameless criminal, not even fit to be counted among an organization of lowlifes?"

"A nameless criminal?" Mytho pinched the bridge of his nose and groaned. "Gods above! All the things I've done and still you don't know me? Then again, I suppose I can't blame a crypt-dweller for being out of touch."

"Whoever you are," Janus said, alighting on the ground and dispersing the wind, "I haven't the slightest inkling to begin caring. You ought to leave while you still have the chance."

Mytho put his thumb against the warm bottle Luciros had given him. No, it was too early to use it. He was too close to Halora and he'd risk burning her as well. He needed to move the fight, and fast. "In time, sire. In time," he said. "You know, I didn't want to be involved in this squabble between you and her. I had a job to attend to that didn't have a damned thing to do with either of you. I was _happy_ that it didn't."

Janus pushed his eyebrows together and a humorless smirk crept across his porcelain-white face. "You have no stake in this war and yet you've taken up arms? Are you a fool or simply too presumptuous for your own good?"

"I'm beginning to think I'm both," Mytho said, shrugging. "The past few days have been enlightening, to put it lightly."

Janus didn't appear to be amused. "Then you're as idiotic as her and twice as arrogant. To think you could stand in my way, slow me down, cause me to stumble, is a mistake." He raised his hand – a withered, splotchy thing, lined by more swollen veins and stretched taut by tendons – and placed it on Mytho's shoulder. "But your presence here tonight isn't something I anticipated. As you have already claimed you aren't affiliated with the Thieves Guild, I will give you one final chance to right your path. This night needn't be your last. Turn around and leave the city immediately. Fulfill what your duty demands, and I won't harm a single hair on your head. You have my word."

Mytho grasped Janus' arm at the elbow and shoved it aside. "You truly are generous, aren't you? I suppose those kind words you gave me in the castle the other day weren't as hollow as I thought them to be." He squinted at the ghastly face in front of him, moving down over Hassildor's body with his eyes as he looked for the slightest twitch to convey his next motion. Nothing. Brave and quick, a pair he would've admired if they weren't poised to kill him and Halora both. "But I'm afraid I won't be taking you up on your offer, sire. I can't."

Janus' expression darkened. "Because?"

Mytho glanced over his shoulder again, catching sight of Halora clawing at the wall as she tried to stand. She shot him a look that was somewhere between irritated and pleading before glancing away. "I've already failed the people I care about too many times for one life," he said, sighing. "If I have a choice in how I'm going to muck things up tonight, I'd rather pick the option where failure means death."

At slightest sound of stirring, Mytho whirled out of the way, freeing his swords from their oppressive coverings. Janus' blade swished by, slick and red with all the blood he had drawn throughout the night. The next swing brought their blades together, Hassildor's caught in a cross between Mytho's.

"Then like her, like her people," Janus said, pushing back with extraordinary strength, the grinding of steel piercing the silence of his pause, "you'll die."

Mytho broke away and ducked underneath Janus' sword. When he came back up, he leaped, slamming his knee into Hassildor's stomach. "I've heard that line more times than I care to count," he said, shoving him away. "Now, how's about we have ourselves a duel? Just us gentlemen? I don't disappoint, I promise."

Hassildor answered by flourishing his sword. His feet rooted firmly on the ground, he surged forward as if he were on ice. A cue to run, if Mytho ever knew one, and a chance to move the battle away from Halora, which he wasted no time in taking. Hassildor slid up on one side of the alley, turning threateningly towards Halora as he passed, a peculiar expression on his face, and vaulted one wall to the other. Not slowing for a second, he chased Mytho.

Out in the street at the other end, between an unfinished building lined by scaffolding and a two-story mansion, Mytho spun around to face him. It was as good a place as any, he figured. To die or win.

Hassildor launched himself from the building's corner as he reached it, a shadowy blur Mytho barely had time to defend against. Weighty as a stampeding horse and without fear – only fury – Hassildor fell on him. Their blades crashed together, showering them both with sparks, the steel screaming as they struggled. Janus skidded backward, his boots clacking on the stones of the street, then charged forward again. Mytho thrust one sword out, parrying Hassildor's with his other. Janus sidestepped it and continued past him, unscathed save for a new hole in his already shredded cloak.

Flat against the wall, his hands spread wide, Hassildor rebounded and twirled around, slamming his leg into Mytho's side. Mytho fell onto the wooden scaffolding flush against the unfinished building's wall. He swallowed the grunt trying to fight its way from his ribs to his mouth.

His sword held in both hands; Janus rushed to impale him. Mytho sucked in a breath and rolled along the wooden planks, pain rippling out from the kick with each scrub against the hard surface. The wood splintered as Hassildor tore into it, ripped his sword out, and cut at Mytho again. He ducked underneath Hassildor's arm, slicing it as he passed.

 _First blood._ Not a victory but a step. He needed more.

Janus hacked at him once again, missing, and buried his sword in the wood. Without flinching, he gripped the handle and leaped, kicking his leg out.

Mytho ducked just before Janus' foot collided with the scaffolding. He shot back up, both swords held straight up like horns, and rammed them through Hassildor's chest, lifting him into the air.

Janus only grimaced as the veins in his face writhed, losing their translucency.

That wasn't what Mytho expected him to do.

Hassildor grasped one of the blades in his chest as if to steady himself and slammed the hilt of his sword into Mytho's forehead. Mytho groaned, his vision filled with distant, flickering lights as the impact pulsated out to his fingertips, and he stumbled back.

But he didn't stop. He squeezed the handles of his swords slipped away, hearing the wood behind him split and the following crash as Janus missed his next attack. Mytho blinked rapidly and rubbed his eyes, fearing what he figured he would see next.

He didn't see it. Instead, he saw Janus yanking at his own sword, the blade buried up to its handle in the unfinished wall. Around him were the broken remains of the section of scaffolding he smashed through.

Seeing him struggle, a horribly stupid idea roared through Mytho's head. He gritted his teeth and moved before he had time to think on it. Hammering savagely with the heaviest of his two swords, he destroyed the remaining support of the scaffolding and yanked the structure away from the building. It lurched forward, spilling the leftover materials and tools sitting on it. The rest of the beams let out a groan as the weight became too much for them alone to bear, each snapping as the entire construct fell away from the building and collapsed into the street. A cloud of dust billowed out, engulfing Hassildor before he had time to react.

Mytho clutched his ribs where he had been kicked, wincing as he tried to muscle his way through waves of pain. He slouched against the wall on the other side of the street and tried to catch his breath in the few seconds of rest he figured he would have.

Halora was far enough away that she wouldn't be caught up in the fight, he had succeeded in gaining that advantage. But if the man could shrug off two blades to the chest, how on Nirn was he supposed to end this?

He set his thumb on the cork of the bottle Luciros had given him. That was it. He could end it that way. He just needed to find an opening and a way to pin him down. Whatever it took.

Shattered planks of wood exploded skyward, belching splinters and warped nails upward like raindrops headed the wrong way, and Hassildor swirled out of the heap in a maelstrom.

A screeching wind ripped through the street from around the bend and caught him mid-air, sweeping him away like an ocean current. Janus planted his feet on the wall as he passed – crouching on it as if it were level ground – then leaped off, cracking the stone with the sheer force of his jump. He slammed the ground in front of Mytho and launched back up, barely giving him enough time to parry the incoming blow. Continuing the motion, Mytho kicked off the wall and spun around, slicing at Janus' midsection. Hassildor dipped low, driving his elbow into Mytho's stomach as sprang up.

Mytho let out a subdued groan, imagining the welt that would swell later. While he was distracted, a sharpened breeze wrapped around his ankle tight and lifted him into the air. Caught again before he could land, this time by a hand around his neck, Janus carried him higher. With a nonchalant swing, Hassildor tossed him at the unfinished building.

Mytho braced for the brutalizing impact that was coming. The bars crossing the window snapped on his back, loosening his grips on his swords, and shards of glass spewed into the building with him as he crashed through. He and the broken pieces of glass alike skidded across the floor – him landing with a thud and them with a sound like wind-chimes knocking against one another. His swords clattered down on opposing sides of the room, too far to reach.

That made three hard landings in one night, two not of his own doing. If he were simply immobilized in the morning, he would count himself lucky. He laid flat on the floor, hoping he could cling to consciousness long enough for the ceiling to stop spinning and for his wounds to stop throbbing so horribly.

Hassildor latched onto the broken window, limbs spread out like a giant insect, his shadow filling the room.

Without thinking, Mytho rolled backward and pushed onto his feet, evading the end of Hassildor's blade as it cut deep into the wooden floor. With a low sweep, Mytho knocked his feet out from underneath him. Janus dropped his sword and broke his fall by putting all his weight on his hands, gouging his palms with fragments of glass. With a low growl and a puddle of blood left in his wake, he launched onto his feet.

Hassildor whipped his hands back and forth, doing little to remove the jutting razors. But with a grimace, he curled his fingers around them and charged.

 _You can't be serious!_ Mytho thought, back-stepping as Hassildor swiped at his face, palming the second swing as Janus advanced.

The third came quicker.

Pain seared across Mytho's face as Janus caught the edge of his chin and bottom lip, opening a fresh gash. His arms braced in front of him, Mytho took the next blow, shredding his sleeve and scraping his skin underneath. Then the next, which left a hole in his glove.

He didn't wait for another. Mytho clenched his fist and pummeled Hassildor in the jaw, leaning his weight into the motion. The thick sound of bone cracking echoed in the empty house as Janus staggered backward, visibly dazed. Mytho advanced, clobbering Janus in the nose, the length of his fangs hard against Mytho's knuckles as he moved down and brushed over them.

He barely had a moment to realize how poor of a maneuver that was.

Janus grabbed Mytho by the wrist, his mouth wide open, and sank his teeth into his clothes. Before he could tear all the way through, Mytho rushed him, slamming him against the wall. One, two, three punches, hard as to make Mytho's knuckles ache, each snapping Janus' head against the wall. Janus gritted his crooked teeth and staggered, pushing back to free himself. Mytho balled his fist and bashed him one more time for good measure. At last, Janus slumped, his grip weakened, and his legs wobbled as he tried to stay upright.

Mytho stepped back, his legs losing their strength as they neared exhaustion, and hobbled across the room. Janus stumbled away from the wall, the sound of his hiss-like breathing competing for auditory dominance with Mytho's ragged panting.

"Getting tired there, sire?" Mytho asked, stooping down to collect his swords from the blood and glass-covered floor. As he bent over, he felt every bit of pain in his body. Faint, but building towards agonizing the longer he focused on it. "I imagine it's a bit different when you aren't beating up on a woman that's lucky to be half your size, isn't it? But you're still a tough one, I'll admit that." Mytho spun one sword as he paced around the room, watching as Hassildor balled his fists in visible rage. "We can stop this if it's getting to be too much for your noble sensibilities. I don't mind."

Hassildor shook his head, his teeth grinding against each other as his face tightened into a scowl. "I'm not tired," he said as the bulging in his veins shrank and disappeared into his skin. "Not quite." He inhaled deeply and shadows in the corner of the room lashed out at him like tentacles, swaddling him in a cloud of black mist.

Mytho thrust one sword through the cloud, yet it caught nothing.

Janus was gone, a whorl of air left in his place.

The room fell silent as Mytho found himself alone, no light to call on save the blue stream of the moon flooding in through the broken window. He pressed his back against the wall, scanning over the room for the slightest bit of movement as he slid his swords back into their sheaths. When his eyes failed to reveal anything, he cupped one hand over his ear and focused his attention there. A sound like cotton cloths rubbing against each other, barely audible over the sound of his rapid heartbeat and shuddering breaths, was all that he found.

A scorching line of pain flashed across his shoulder, splattering blood on the wall and ripping his clothes to tatters. Mytho clutched the seeping wound and spun with the force of the slash.

He figured he should've known Hassildor wasn't giving up that easily.

Another slash tore open a wound on his chest. Mytho bit his tongue to keep from shouting and dropped to his knees, his hand pressed flat to keep the blood from gushing until he could figure out how deep it had gone. He took his hand away and exhaled. Not too deep. Without question, he'd survive. He raised to his feet, listening intently for a sound. Again, Janus attacked, this time slashing his cheek, and a tuft of dust skittered away on the other side of the room.

A damned sloppy strike. He may as well have been wearing a bell around his neck if he was going to move that much. Mytho spun around and slid on his knees, knowing what was coming next. Janus' glass-claws parted the air in front of his nose, close enough to trim a fine hair from the tip.

There you are.

He began to cross the room, dodging back and forth to keep Janus from landing a telling blow. There wasn't a cue, no sign of an incoming strike except for a subtle shift in the airflow, but he didn't need a telegraphed swing to know. He only needed to make himself too difficult a target to hit. The man was a noble and a vampire with more than a lifetime on him, but he wasn't a scrapper. That much Mytho could tell. Alternating between rolling, twirling, and side-stepping, he worked his way deeper into the house, one hand lingering on the bottle in case an opportunity presented itself. As he reached the other side of the room, Mytho backed into the hallway. At the end of it, he spied a door that opened into another room – no windows in sight.

Perfect. He couldn't have asked for a better place. He waited for the next strike, then slipped into the room. Mytho yanked the door closed and stepped back, surrounded by perfect darkness.

The door and knob rattled and shook, then fell silent. At that, Mytho tore the bottle free and gripped it tight.

One chance. One false move and he would go up in flames as well. One false move and nothing would stand between Janus and Halora. He wiped his face on his arm, smearing blood and sweat across his cheeks and forehead, and whispered a prayer to any Divine listening that, for once, things would go his way. If never again, just this once.

A wisp of air disturbed dust in the empty room. Mytho twirled to face the source of the motion. Janus' claw whistled by his ear the moment he moved. He dropped back on his hand and sprang away, making for the door as he lobbed the bottle across the room. A howling wind whipped from wall to wall, the bottle frantically lulling back and forth in the maelstrom, as Janus shouted a curse at him.

Mytho shouldered his way out of the room and slammed the door behind him. With every bit of strength he had left, he raced down the hall, heading for the broken window. The moment he was out, he'd find Halora and get her to safety. After that, he'd come back to make sure Janus was dead. Dead, like he hoped he was already. As Mytho reached the window and felt the chilly night air against his skin, he smirked and looked over his shoulder.

A sea of red fire shredded the door to pieces and curled around the hallway, scorching everything it touched.

 _Not here, damn it!_ Mytho thought as the heatwave crashed over him - a burst of the sun trapped in a tiny space - turning the air thick and soppy as it dried. Before he could scramble out of the window, the force of the blast slammed into his back, heralded by a crack of thunder, and knocked him headlong into the cool dark.


	27. The Nature of Power

27

.~~~.

Halora limped down the alleyway, watching as the fireball billowed higher into the sky. The flickering orange lights burned through the darkness, turning her shadow into a long trail that stretched far behind. Flaming chunks of debris shined like falling stars – the roof having been blown off by the explosion – and crashed down across the city. The alley had become awash with heat the moment she saw the first embers, steadily reaching to sweltering, and she feared what it would be like inside.

At least, she imagined the feeling so powerfully it was as if she had felt it. She _wished_ she had, even. Just so she could warm her fingers, shake what felt like crystals of ice from her skin, and keep from curling into a shivering ball. The force of the blast had followed soon after, knocking her flat on her back and just after she had steadied her legs enough to walk, no less. Yet in spite of her thoughts being overwhelmed with misery, dread, and that horrible voice echoing in the darkness, something else fought for space in Halora's mind.

Mytho was in that heap of smoldering wreckage. Halora knew it had been his doing. She had felt it in the pit of her stomach the moment she heard the crash. That fool always took things too far. He always chose extravagance over subtlety – senseless glitz in place of careful technique – and now the guards were likely on the way if they hadn't been already. Everyone in the city had probably felt or heard the explosion.

But he was fine. He had to be. He always was. His stubbornness was the only thing Halora knew she could count on. At that moment, it was the only thing she was glad for, as well.

And if he wasn't fine?

If she entered that burning building and found herself trapped – him dead – what was she going to do next? Die alongside him? Halora gnawed on the inside of her cheek, her teeth leaving a tiny cut on the tender flesh inside her mouth, and winced at her doubt.

She had to try, no matter what. She needed to know what it was that moved him to come back to her tonight, what had forced her to follow him even though she wished it hadn't. They were supposed to be finished with one another, herself freed from his idiocy for good and better off for it. She wasn't supposed to be dragging herself far beyond her limits with a faint hope that his recklessness hadn't, at last, cost him his life. After coming so far, however, she could only hope the same force that had driven him to run, doomed as he was, would give her the strength to find him.

 _Even if it's only ashes,_ she thought, gulping down the lump in her throat as she stumbled into the open street.

The thought cast a chilling breeze over her already frigid body. She was angry, that much she'd never deny, but she didn't have it in herself to wish him dead. That same piece that feared his death, in a peculiar twist, loathed the notion of admitting to the fond memories they shared.

Fire and smoke, the scent of both dominating the odor of blood in the air, obscured the moon and stars in a deep orange. As Halora surveyed the wreckage, she decided that there was only one way in. If she climbed over the demolished scaffolding, she could reach the door. From there, she could work her way through the inside of the building. If it hadn't already fallen apart, that is. Gritting her teeth to keep from gnawing on her lip or cheek, already having learned that her nervous habit was only adding to her misery, Halora started towards the building.

" _You mustn't…"_ said a voice as she moved, so close it sounded as it was coming from inside her skull. _"Not before you…"_

Her skin quickly covered itself with goosebumps, every hair standing on end. It was the voice, the very same that had haunted her in that sunless place. But where was it coming from? As she looked back and forth in a search for the owner, the air around her grew colder and a piercing breeze circled.

" _Make haste, Fledgling,"_ the voice said, its smooth tone more defined than the deep rumbling it had been, _"before you lose yourself. Before the thirst overwhelms you. Look, don't you see? You are already fading."_

Halora rubbed her eyes. The colors and details of the street and towering buildings smeared much like someone had taken their finger across a wet painting. They had been that way since earlier and only grown worse, now so muddled that she couldn't discern anything. She rubbed them again, blinked them hard twice, and tried squinting enough to see. Only a shroud of encroaching dark too thick to wade through filled her vision. It was a cold dark, an unwelcome dark, where the heat of the fire couldn't reach her anymore. She had just escaped that terrible, lifeless place and still, the voice had reached her, unbothered by the distance.

They had to be somewhere.

 _Make haste._

The voice had repeated that so many times she had lost count. It had whispered that in her ear, growing louder each time. But was that the voice or was it her own mind?

Carefully, Halora began walking again. It didn't matter. Whatever the voice was, wherever it was coming from, she couldn't waste time thinking about it. She had to get into that building. She had to hurry or else he'd be in danger, that man she was after…

Halora stopped.

His name. What was his name?

 _Florentius._

No, he didn't use that one anymore, not since they were young. It was his other one, that stupid moniker.

 _Mytho._

Yes, that was it. Wasn't it? She had to find Mytho before it was too late. That sounded correct. He was in danger and she was trying to find him. But as she began to walk further into the shroud, the glow of the fires dimmed as well. The darkness swallowed them up and replaced them with a frozen void.

" _Oh, how_ _my_ _children_ _ignore_ _me_ _,"_ the voice said, punctuating their faux lament with an amused chuckle. _"You feel_ _him_ _, don't you?_ _He's_ _close. You already allowed one to slip away. You mustn't do so again,_ _or else I won't be able to reach you._ _M_ _ake haste, Fledgling._ _"_

Halora's eyes were drawn, almost forcibly, to a crimson, swirling light as it pierced the shroud. It appeared to be coming from what used to be the end of the street.

Heat. Light. Life within a lifeless place, pulsating in circularity. At the sight of the light, her mouth felt dryer, her thirst growing. So dry, in fact, that she could hardly stand the sensation of her tongue rubbing against the inside of her cheek, it feeling like stone grinding on stone. So dry, her mind could focus on nothing other than the apparition, the name of that man – the one she had been trying to find – utterly lost.

 _Make haste,_ she thought. Yes, she had thought it this time. It wasn't the voice anymore. It was her. She was sure of it. But what did it mean? Why was that lights so alluring, what made its vitality so seductive?

The ghost quickly approached her, soon looming over her, and they reached out and took her by the wrist in a metallic vice. The strength of their grip made her bones ache as they yanked her back and forth, uncaring that her shoulder felt as if it were ready to come loose.

With a laugh, the voice returned once more. _"You aren't to be dominated, Fledgling. It's no longer in your nature. Why, then, do you continue to allow such a grievous trespass? Why do you resist your true nature?"_

Halora struggled against the ghost as it pulled again. She pried at their extremities and dug her broken fingernails into the hardness of their flesh. They refused to let go, however, unbothered by her weak resistance.

But their heat, it was so close that she nearly didn't want to break free. She could feel it radiating from them, the warmth of life, keeping the cold at bay. She had to have it. She didn't know why but she _craved_ it, the feeling so strong it invaded her soul.

" _Have you not seen what squandering this gift has done to my prodigal child?"_ the voice asked. _"Do you wish to become as he has?_ _Do you wish to be cast_ _out of my Famil_ _y_ _and become li_ _ttle more than a prowling beast?"_

Halora squeezed her eyes shut and begged for the voice to stop its ceaseless questioning. Before it drove her mad. She needed only a few moments to focus – only a few – and she could remember what she had been doing before it was too late.

" _Stop resisting the call. You know that you must heed it. You know what must be done."_

She had to make it stop. She had to find a way to get warm again, either through the fire or through…

Them.

Their warmth. So comforting. So close. She didn't want it, she didn't crave it. She _needed_ it. She would take it if she had to. Steal it from them. She didn't have a choice. No choice at all. It was in her nature, wasn't it?

A breath tickled Halora's ear, cold and lifeless, but purposeful, almost as if someone had stood close and leaned over to her. _"Do it,"_ the voice whispered, crisp and clear.

Halora tried to resist. She tried to force herself not to but she found herself diving into the apparition, toppling it to the ground as she struggled to bring the warmth out of them. Compelled by an insatiable thirst she didn't understand, one that had become a twisting, painful hunger, she probed at them with her lips until she found what she was searching for. There, just below the surface. Just like it had been with that man. The pointed daggers in her mouth hooked onto the ghost, puncturing them with a kind give like she had bitten into a tomato, uniting her with the heat of their life. It was so rich, so invigorating, like the first sip of water after trudging through an endless desert, she couldn't contain herself. She needed all they could offer.

Underneath her, they fought and swatted at her with strikes she barely felt. Distantly, somewhere in the dark shroud, another voice let out an agonized shriek.

Slowly, the shroud of darkness receded until the flames from the building were allowed to flicker and glow once again. Halora raised to up and looked around, feeling as if she had just woken up from a long night of rest, the details of her surroundings crystallizing in a way they never had before. The withered muscles in her body, the broken bones, the cuts, regained their vigor and mended, allowing her to stand without hindrance from pain nor the burden of age. Whatever she had done, it had worked fantastically to clear her mind. Every sensation was amplified, leaving her feeling as sharp, if not sharper than ever. Even her skin was uncomfortably sensitive.

So much so, that she felt something dribbling down her chin so acutely it was as if it were someone was digging their finger into her face. Halora wiped her wrist across her lips and looked at her sleeve. There was a spot of blood, which wasn't much of a surprise after the horror she had survived. She licked her thumb and went to smudge it away as she turned towards the burning building, but stopped, a horrified gasp caught in her throat. Her clothes – from the neck down to her stomach – were soaked with blood. She stretched them out so she could get a better look. There was so much of it. It couldn't be hers, could it?

As Halora stepped back, she tripped over something and fell to the ground. She growled a curse at her clumsiness, feeling as if she should be above that, and sat up.

When she saw what she had fallen over, her gasp became a scream she couldn't contain any longer.

The corpse of a guard lay twisted in front of her, a pair of deep wounds on his neck just below his ear. His skin was shriveled around his bones and his face was a ghastly white, his eyes forever widened in apparent terror.

Halora approached him and knelt down to get a closer look at the peculiar wounds. She reached out, her hands shaking as she did, and she pulled his skin taught.

 _Bite marks,_ she thought, puzzling over their presence. _From…_

Her eyes snapped over to the burning building. Janus couldn't have escaped that blast. He had to be dead.

A touch of the cold she had fought her way out of ran up her spine as she realized there was no one else there but her.

One guard and one apparition, somehow both in the same place as each other. She had fought off one and the corpse of the other lay before her. She had learned over many years that coincidences were a rare thing, but for this to be one? That couldn't be. _She_ couldn't be. Janus had bitten her but it had to be a mistake. It couldn't have happened so quickly. There had to be a reasonable explanation. There was no way she was correct.

 _But,_ she told herself, slowing her thoughts before they could reach a panicked rampage, _there's only one way to be sure._

Daring, dreading, a cold sweat rolling down her forehead, she brushed her tongue against the front row of her teeth. Halora stopped short when she reached what she didn't want to acknowledge.

Halora dropped to her knees and wretched at the ground. _Then I…_ she thought, covering her mouth with her hand. _Those marks, the blood…_

A crash came from inside the building, the flames having brought it to its limits. The sound was like a dinging bell tower at the crack of dawn.

"Mytho," she breathed, shooting to her feet, already running to the door. She couldn't stop. Not now. No matter what she had become. Halora stamped her foot hard on the ground. To her surprise, she was airborne and sailing right at the upper floor of the building.

" _Don't you give up on me!"_

.~~~.

The air was thick with smoke and embers around Mytho as he pushed broken plank after shattered stone off his worn-down body. He could feel the heat of the fires around him, so hot it was as if he had been thrown into the Deadlands. With each second he lingered, they grew closer to devouring him. But every movement reminded him of how little strength he had left, each bruise, burn, and cut flaring back to life, and all he knew to do was pretend they didn't exist. The collapsing building around him, however, couldn't be wished away so easily. He knew the bottle was a dangerous tool, but he didn't imagine such a small thing could contain such power.

There wasn't time to marvel at Luciros' lethal mixtures, he figured. Not if he wanted to live another day. Mytho wiped the sweat from his brow – not that he wasn't drenched – gritted his teeth, and wedged his fingers underneath the beam that was lying across his leg. The scorched wood groaned as he strained to lift it. He did too, the muscles in his arms sore and pulling so tight he worried they would snap. "Come on," he grunted, coughing as he sucked down a puff of smoke. "You've lifted heavier!"

He pushed it higher, higher, and far enough to snatch his leg out before it slammed down again. He would've taken a deep breath in relief if he didn't think one more would cause him to pass out. Mytho scooted back against what was left of the wall and used it to pull himself up. He tried to stand straight, but at long last, he knew his back had decided it no longer wished to be abused. He hobbled forward, one hand pushed on his spine, hoping he could keep himself from collapsing until he found a way out. He looked around and saw that he was surrounded by walls of fire. Then to the smoky sky above.

There had to be a way out.

As he hauled himself onward, Mytho spied through the smoke and fires a figure climbing out of the wreckage. His first instinct told him to call out to them and beg that they help, but he knew better.

He knew there was only one person it could've been.

Hassildor raised to full height, his scorched body a blackened silhouette among the sea of orange, and turned towards him. Only once before had Mytho been given a glimpse of what fire does to a man unlucky enough to escape its wrath. A harrowing glimpse it was, and he knew he didn't want to see anyone succumb to such a grizzle fate again. However, he didn't imagine seeing a man still walking afterward would be worse. Sparse remains of Hassildor's clothing stuck to his charred skin, all burning hot on their ends as they were gradually consumed and reduced to more kindling for the greedy blaze. Without uttering a word, he stooped down and plunged his hand into the rubble to remove his sword.

"You're not looking so well, sire," Mytho said, laughing to cover the painful cough tearing at his lungs.

Hassildor lumbered on in silence, unconcerned by the fires eating away at him.

"Whatever you're expecting from me, you won't have it," Mytho said. "Kill me, if that's your aim. I'm not going to beg that you spare me."

"I wouldn't anyway," Janus croaked, his voice hoarse. "We've gone too far for mercy."

This wasn't how Mytho imagined himself dying – he figured it would be much grander a spectacle – but he wouldn't let that cause him to lose his head. "Don't be shy, then," he said, gesturing to himself. "Finish what you started."

Hassildor shoved him to the ground the moment he reached him. As Mytho landed, he didn't dare give him the satisfaction of seeing fear or hesitation. Hassildor raised the blade high, holding it in both hands, his skin sizzling from the heat of the metal as he stood over him.

 _I suppose I won't be keeping that promise, Aressia._ One regret wasn't so bad, he figured. Greater men than him, few as they were, died with hundreds and each of them would sacrifice their pride to see them resolved. He'd never stoop so low. _I hope you'll find it in your heart to forgive me, lass._

Hassildor's arm shivered, ready to bring the clash to a decisive end when a gust of wind blew the flames sideways. Soot and embers kicked up into the air. The weak floors groaned and cracked under the sudden increase in weight as something landed among the piles of rubble and skidded to a stop. Janus, as if he knew what it was, went rigid and lowered his sword to his side.

Mytho rolled over and tried to sit up. When he saw the shape of a person – decidedly that of a woman – rising from the wreckage, he assumed his eyes had begun playing him for a fool. Only when he recognized their face did he realize he wasn't.

Halora dusted herself off and picked splinters and stone from her skin. When she was finished, she looked directly at Janus. The fury on her face was only compounded by the gleaming crimson of her eyes, the same color as freshly drawn blood, and the sharpened fangs taking center-stage on her grinding teeth. She didn't have a weapon to show for her imposing appearance, but she seemed long past the point of caring. With a mighty kick, she snapped the burned, wooden beam in front of her in half and stepped through the triangular gap it left.

"Damnable woman," Hassildor growled as he turned. "I should've done away with you when I had the chance."

Halora shook her hands and bounced a few steps before she began to run. "You've got your chance now."

Hassildor took a deep breath and vanished into the shadows, a trail of dark mist left in his place. Halora didn't hesitate, however. She leaped into the air, her arms outstretched, and grabbed his invisible body. With a shout, she slammed Janus down, smashing him through the floor. The wood shattered and he fell below, enveloped by smoke and fire.

When she landed, she paused and looked at her hands in disbelief. With a smirk and nearly a laugh, Halora leaned over the gaping hole left in the floor and spat into it.

Mytho, seeing his chance, struggled to his feet. He didn't hear her as she approached, but he felt it when she set her hands on him to keep him steady. He glanced at her, barely able to focus on anything besides her eyes and the blood coating her front. "I guess Luciros was right after all," he said, trying not to shudder. "Something hasn't been the same ever since you got your arse handed to you a few nights ago."

Just then, a crash came from the floor below. Another section of the building had collapsed, Mytho was sure. Or Hassildor was coming back for more.

"We'll talk about this later," Halora said, shaking her head. "We've got to get out of here."

"I know," he said, brushing by her. He only made it a few steps, however, before he felt the need to stop becoming too much to ignore. She must've been able to tell, as she put his arm across her shoulders and kept him from hitting the ground.

"What in Nocturnal's name were you thinking?" she asked as they walked. "Blasting the whole place apart? You could've died, did you know that?"

"I _know,_ Hallie."

"Gods, this is why I used to worry all the time."

Mytho raised an eyebrow at her. "Used to?"

Halora's eyes rolled in their sockets. "When I didn't know any better, yes. But, as I said, we'll talk when we're safe."

As they passed the hole in the floor, Mytho peered into it, looking for a body. "Speaking of being safe, did you kill the Count tossing him like that?"

"No, he's still alive. I know he wouldn't die that easily."

"Easily?" Mytho repeated, chuckling pitifully. "All I went through and you have the nerve to say that?"

Halora didn't respond. As she led him through the burning house in silence, he couldn't help but notice the myriad of expressions warping her face. Brief flickers of emotion would display themselves, but mostly, she seemed to be getting lost deep inside her head. Yet more than once, he caught her sneaking glances at him.

"Something the matter?" he asked as they crept down the stairs.

"It's nothing," she said definitively. "Nothing at all."

He looked over her clothes and grimaced. "That's not yours, is it?"

"Please," she said, her eyes shut tight like his voice caused her pain. "Be quiet. I can hardly focus as it is."

Mytho absentmindedly wiped the wounds on his chin and lip. The twinge of pain it brought him and the drops of blood it smeared on his glove caused a chill to ripple across his body. As close as they were, he didn't doubt she could smell it. But being as she was now, how much stronger was the scent? How powerful was the urge and how long could she deny it?

He hoped that somewhere deep inside, the Halora he had known for the better part of twenty years was still in control. If she wasn't, he didn't want to think of what would become of him.

As they crossed the bottom floor, heading for the exit, Mytho again made a cursory search for Hassildor. Still, he found not one trace of the Count, only the circular crack in the floor where he had landed. "Looks to me that you were right."

Halora's eyes darkened, the ferocity burning behind them a thing to be feared. Her fingers dug into his side, just underneath his ribs where he'd been bruised, and he winced. "I hope so," she hissed. "I wasn't finished yet."

The floor above their heads split down the middle. Smoldering fragments trickled down, lighting fires in the sparse places that weren't already engulfed.

"Patience, love," he said as he squeezed Halora's shoulder. He breathed the toxic air and swooned, all his weight leaned heavily on her. "I'd rather not have my remains sent back to Aressia in an urn."

Halora stopped and looked around. "We're never going to make it at this pace," she said. "But I think I can get us both out." She grabbed him by the chin and made him look directly at her. It was a peculiar sight, the familiar hazel of her eyes nowhere to be found, and for a brief moment he felt a peculiar sense of longing rush through his mind.

"I need you to trust me," she said. "Can you do that?"

"Aye. You're one of the few that I always have."

It could've been the blistering heat and inhaling too much smoke that made him delirious, but Mytho believed that a faint smile to meet his had appeared on her lips. "Brace yourself, then," she said.

"For wha-"

Halora locked her arm around the back of his legs and pushed him over. As he fell into her, she staggered back and forth uneasily, her arms reaching as far as they could to hold him up. When she regained her footing, she sprinted towards the door. Like a cannonball, she launched outside and over the collapsed scaffolding. Mytho looked to see the ground below speeding in the other direction. The air was crisp, almost if it were eager to blow into his lungs. The darkness of night grew and overtook the brilliant light of the fires as they began to descend.

Too quickly for his liking.

Halora yelped as she landed. Her legs buckled underneath her and she made a grab for Mytho as he flew from her arms.

When he hit the ground, he barely felt it. Before his vision filled with black, he saw her running towards him. The world had turned sideways.

.~~~.

"Wake up," a voice called out from somewhere in the distance. "Florentius!"

Before he was to able see, Mytho's first instinct was to take the deepest, gasping breath he could. The sting in his lungs as the cold air rushed into them was unrefined agony, as was the coughing fit that followed, but it was a clean pain. It was a revitalizing pain, making his heart pump strong as it, too, awakened. The smoky scent lingering in the air wasn't the sort that came from being surrounded by consuming fire rather, it was the kind that he figured would burrow deep into the fibers of his clothing and perhaps his skin, too. He had come much closer to death than he wanted to, but his back and perhaps everything else on and inside his thoroughly pummeled body served as a stark reminder that he was alive.

He opened his eyes to the stars. A blanket of mist and dispersing smoke hanged underneath the sky, dulling the shine of the moons. In the midst of it there appeared to be someone looming over him. Their hands were on either side of his face as if to keep him from moving. Mytho lolled his head back and forth, trying to jog his brain into piecing together the features of the face hovering in front of his. Slowly, as if the gesture had truly done what he intended, he regained his sight enough to discern them.

And what a face it was, one that he'd welcome the sight of no matter the occasion.

"Well?" Halora asked as she gently ran her thumbs over his cheeks and under his eyes. "Are you going to say something?"

"Just..." He trailed off, trying to hide his pain behind a smirk as he reached towards her. "If the afterlife is having you this close all the time, I'm a fool for not doing myself in years ago."

She made an expression that carried hints of amusement and irritation and pushed his hand away. "Stop," she said, standing up. The glow of her eyes moved, showing that she wasn't looking at him any longer. "We aren't done. Not yet."

Mytho propped himself up. It was too fast as the blood in his head rushed around, making him lightheaded as he watched her turn and walk away. "And where on Nirn are _we_ going?"

She stopped and looked over her shoulder, her face tightened into a scowl. "Hassildor is this way. Come on."

Mytho balled his fists and pushed against the ground. With a deep breath, he tried to raise higher, but he only made it to his knees before he found he was far too exhausted to reach full height. "You're going to have to help me, here, love. I think I've had enough."

Halora stopped mid-step and looked back. Then ahead, and back to him once more. With a sigh, she returned to his side and helped him up.

Through the dark corners and around the tall buildings of the city, in total silence save for the distant crackling of the fires and the shouting of the men probably trying to extinguish it, they walked. She didn't even glance at him in that manner he found especially alluring, almost as if she had forgotten he was there. But that was the part about her rage he dreaded the most. He could tell by the way her jaw was clenched that whatever patience, whatever kindness or understanding she once had, was gone. It was one of the many casualties of the past several hours. He knew that there wasn't space for anything else in her mind aside from fury.

And he was glad that for once in their lives he wasn't the one she was angriest with.

It was a slow pace they moved but with each second passing, she seemed one second closer to throwing caution, and likely him, to the wind. The scowl she had been wearing deepened. She began to take her steps faster, forcing him to move faster, too. Just when he thought he would tell her to leave him be, she stopped and sucked in a shallow breath, her eyes narrowed at the shadows ahead.

There, in the alleyway, looking to be more corpse than man, was Hassildor. He was slumped against the wall, sitting with his head leaned back and his blackened eyes pointed skyward, but Mytho could still see his small movements. Janus turned towards them as they approached, his mouth open and expression vacant. "Did you hear her?" he asked, his voice a whisper.

Mytho looked to Halora and caught her expression as it flashed from anger to shock and back again. "Who are you talking about?" she asked.

Hassildor looked back at the sky. "She speaks through our blood," he said, sticking his sword into the ground and using it to raise himself up. When he reached his feet, his legs only shook underneath his weight. "It belonged to her in the first place, after all. We've only been cursed to carry it. Surely you heard her taunting you. She enjoys that."

Halora's dug her fingers into Mytho's back. "Then, that voice..."

"Was her, yes," he said as he leaned heavily on his sword. "So, you did hear her. I'm not surprised. She knows when her bloodline is extended. She senses it the exact second it awakens in yours. Rona heard her, too. Every night. Even while she slept. But that..." he trailed off, his hand clenched into a tight fist, " _b_ _east_ only lies. Her influence only serves to poison the mind."

"And you chose to give it to me?" Halora said, her voice strained. "Why? Is this another way of punishing me? Were all the lives you took not enough?"

Janus shook his head slowly. "I didn't choose to join you in this curse. Not even the evilest of men deserve such a fate."

"Listen, Hallie," Mytho whispered in her ear when he felt her the muscles in her back tense up. "He's trying to get to you. Don't let him do it."

If she heard him, she didn't seem to care. Mytho wasn't sure which one held worse consequences.

"Then what did you mean to do?" she asked.

Janus, using his sword in place of a cane, hobbled towards them. "She claims it's power that she bequeaths," he said, "but only when you realize what she demands in return will you come to know it as a curse."

"But _who_ is she?" Halora asked.

"It matters little who she is," he said, coughing into his fist. "Knowing her name would only drive you mad. It would only give you a frail, meaningless hope that would be snatched away the moment you realize that no matter what you do, you could never harm her. You could spend a century, perhaps longer, as I have, trying to draw her out. But the truth is that you won't succeed. And even if she allowed you to find her, you would perish before you were permitted even a glimpse of her face, that much I can assure you."

Mytho felt Halora's body stiffen against his, every muscle pulling tight like a web of threads stretched too far at the sound of those words. He didn't need to know nor did he want to imagine what sorts of things she was thinking.

"Do you want to know something?" Halora asked, her voice frighteningly low as she pushed Mytho away, forcing him to stand alone.

"Hallie," he pleaded as he made a grab for the back of her shirt. "Wait just a bit longer. I've still got a few things I need to..."

Halora whipped her head around and glared at him. Her eyes were shining, turning a deeper shade of red than he had ever seen before, an unnatural color that made his stomach turn. He let her go and raised his hands. Then, just as he began to wonder if his mouth had gotten him into trouble he couldn't escape, she returned her attention to Janus.

"Ever since the first time you killed one of my guildmates, I've been hearing your words," she said, stalking towards him. "Every time I tried to close my eyes, they were all I could think about. Every second of every day, they repeated over and over. And after all you've done, after all the threats you've made against me and the people I care about, I think I've heard enough of your nonsense."

As she approached Janus, her fists shook in uncontrollable fury. In what appeared to be foresight, he made an attempt to block her, but he was both too weak and too slow to accomplish anything. The back of Halora's hand met his face with enough force to throw him off-balance.

"How many?" she asked, bringing her hand around for another slap. The crack of her strike echoed through the street. "How many did you kill tonight?" Yet another slap, more savage than the first two, forcing him to stumble back. "How many did the guards kill?"

Hassildor, in an act of defiance, only steadied himself. "No more than necessary."

Halora's eyes widened and darted around in horrifying disbelief, her mouth hanging ajar.

"Hallie!" Mytho said as he tried to reach her, fighting through the electric pain dragging him down to his knees. "Listen to me!"

She gripped her head in both hands and her voice exploded into a pained cry. With a motion faster than a blinking eye, she ripped the sword from Hassildor's hand. She grabbed him by the face and threw him down. With one foot on his shoulder, she pinned him and held the tip of the sword against his neck. "I asked you how many!"

Hassildor didn't flinch. "Does this power make you feel alive? Does it make you feel as if you are infinite?"

She traced the sword across his face. Under her foot, Hassildor writhed and let out a groan. As if the action angered her further, Halora stomped her foot on his shoulder, his bones audibly cracking. "That's not an answer!"

Janus grabbed her by the ankle and tried to lift her off. "This is how she entraps you," he gasped. "You're playing right into her hands. Continue down this path, and you'll quickly find it's too late to turn back."

Halora drove her heel into him and lifted the sword above her head, the warped shape of it shining in the moon, reflecting crimson and stained by the same color. "Perhaps I don't want to turn back," she said. "If it's too late, it's you who's to blame."

When Mytho saw her arms tense, he knew he didn't have a choice. Bracing for another hard landing – the last he hoped he'd suffer for the night – he leaped onto Halora and tackled her to the ground, holding her by her wrists. The sword flew from her hands and clanged against the wall, coming to rest beside Janus.

Halora thrashed underneath him with vastly more strength than he expected, almost too much to handle, whimpering as she fought against his grip. "Let me go!" she screamed, hate and pain boiling over in her eyes, spilling down her cheeks in the form of tears. "Don't you understand? He deserves this!"

"Not until I get what I want out of him!" Mytho said, shooting a glance to where Hassildor had been lying.

His stomach twisted into knots when he realized the grave mistake he had made.

Janus was on his feet, already walking in the other direction. "And when you've fashioned yourself a prison of your own making," he said as he looked towards the vast sky, then at them, his scorched face crestfallen. "When you understand that only solitude awaits, you'll understand the fickle nature of power."

With a shallow inhale, Janus burst into a cloud of mist. The winds blew upward and into the sky, swirling and dispersing him in every direction.

Halora put her knee against Mytho's chest and launched him against the wall. For a moment, unconsciousness took him. When he awoke, he tried to bolt upright, hoping he could still catch her, but Halora was on her feet and running.

"Come back here!" she shouted as she jumped onto the side of the building, clawing like an animal in flight at whatever she could to raise herself higher. Flowerpots hanging from windowsills and loose decorations alike were torn apart and thrown to the ground, their final purpose to propel her faster. When she reached the rooftops, Halora didn't slow her pace. She threw herself off over the ledge, her hand reached out as she arched through the air.

But it was a fruitless endeavor. All that awaited her was a trail of mist that she couldn't take hold of. It didn't care that she was angry. It didn't care for her power. It slipped through her fingers all the same. As she began to fall, she flailed her arms, fighting to stay aloft and maybe in hopes of calling on the winds he had. Nothing, not even a gentle breeze came to her aid. When she landed, she paused to look up before she crumpled to her knees.

"I said come back!" she cried weakly, her voice breaking. When nothing aside her echo answered, Halora doubled over and began to beat her fist on the ground until her knuckles bled.

By the time Mytho fought through the throbbing pain from being slammed against the side of a building, she was silent. He sank down beside her, watching as her wide-eyed gaze didn't break from the sky, her expression as furious as it was crushed, a steady flow of tears running down her cheeks.

"Hallie..."

"I-I couldn't save them," she said, slurring her way over the words, barely acknowledging his presence. "I couldn't help them. I couldn't even make him pay for what he did."

Mytho put his arms around Halora and pulled her close, joining her in gazing at the sky. "I'm sorry, Hallie. I'm so sorry. I wasn't…"

 _You weren't what?_ he thought. _What did you think was going to happen?_

Only a few days prior, he had longed to see the radiance of her smile again and for whatever reason, he had been granted such a luxury. More than ever, he wanted it now if only to imagine he hadn't seen the rawness of defeat on her too many times before. But he had. It was a look she wore on more occasions than a person had any right to. This time, however, he was supposed to spare her from it, not cause it.

As the night cleared of mist, leaving him in the dark to hold her as she whimpered and sobbed, Mytho accepted the bitter truth that the night had been no more than a failure for them both.

"They died because of me," she whispered, her strength turning to limpness in his embrace. "It was all my fault."


	28. One Night Ends, Another Begins

28

.~~~.

Mytho didn't know what to expect from Halora now that he was on his way to the West Weald Inn. Last they had spoken, it ended with a fight and a stinging welt on his face. After that, they parted ways under the assumption they would never be on speaking terms again. But before he knew it, he was rescuing her, only for her to in turn save him. Except she wasn't herself anymore, and it was likely that she never would be again.

Halora was a vampire now. He had had to remind himself of that several times over the past two days in hopes he wouldn't be uneasy meeting her. He figured he still would be, however, as he hadn't yet learned what changes it brought other than the physical.

He also worried what her reaction would be since he was the reason she was denied the closure she desired. Janus had escaped so handily he felt he had earned the title of "World's Most Idiotic Man" without trying. Had he only been less concerned with his own goals, she would've had what she wanted. But then, where would that have left him? His only lead would've died with that man – not that it hadn't when he vanished – and he would've been forced to start over with nothing. No matter which way Mytho tried to reason it, he saw that fortune had only held loss for them both.

And still, she had sent a letter to him. In it, a mere request that once he was healed, he would meet her at the inn. Two days later, freshly released from the Chapel of Julianos, still somewhat sore and definitely exhausted, he was doing just as he was asked.

But Mytho didn't know what he was walking into, nor did feel as if he knew who he was meeting, only that she looked, sounded, and felt like the Halora he had known. She carried the same atmosphere, that air of haughtiness and endless persistence that had made her unforgettable.

But was it truly her?

The thought of seeing her change beyond recognition for the second time in their lives made his head swim, and his chest ache. He didn't want to relive the past and watch helplessly as she tried to piece herself together again. What he wanted was for the people he cared about, her and Aressia both, to stop altering themselves so quickly. Or, if they had no choice, then to wait for him to make sense of things before they continued.

Because of those reasons, he took his time walking up the stairs, through the inn, and onto the shaded balcony where she awaited. Mytho took his seat across the table from Halora, stealing glances at her as she stirred her cup of tea. She was strangely silent, not even making the sounds of breathing, which she probably wasn't. He didn't know if vampires truly needed it or if Hassildor had only done so to focus himself. A hood was pulled over her head, only the tip of her nose visible from the side. As he looked her over, he noticed there wasn't a sliver of exposed skin elsewhere, not even a fingertip. Sitting beside her was a large case, leaving him to wonder what she had tucked away inside.

He figured, much like last time, he was going to be fighting to find the proper words. But unlike last time, he knew where to start his search. "Hallie, I know you're angry with me," he said, "but I want you to know that I'm so..."

When she looked at him, his heart skipped a beat, and his blood stilled in his veins. Her expression was at rest, not a hint of the fury that had twisted it before to be found. Her eyes, however, still shined in that unnatural red color. Her lips were held at an odd position, her fangs likely the cause of it, almost as if she weren't sure where to let them sit. She paused for a moment, one eyebrow raised suspiciously as she took a sip of her tea.

"Have you heard the news?" she asked, looking out across the city, her eyes squinted.

She was playing at something, as always. "About us?"

Halora shook her head and sipped on her tea again. "About what happened in Chorrol. Did you overhear anything from the priestesses while you were in the Chapel?"

"No, I haven't. Isn't Chorrol supposed to be a quiet sort of place?"

Halora set her teacup down and folded her hands in her lap. "Well, according to the word of travelers, there was a bandit raid recently. They broke through the walls and wreaked havoc on the city, killing several of the guards and even the captain in the process. The town was left largely intact, but there were heavy damages to one section of the city."

"Sounds like a terrible day for them, then," he said. The bandages underneath his shirt itched as he tried to find a comfortable way to sit, the new scar across his chest stinging faintly as he scratched. "You aren't one to care much about the guards, though, so what is it you're getting at?"

Halora appeared as if she wanted to emote, but instead stifled it behind the blank expression she was obviously trying to make. "I don't care about them, you're correct about that much," she said coldly. "But there's more to the story. If the rumors are to be believed, the Lady-In-Flames herself put on a grand show for the townspeople when she single-handedly repelled the bandits. Where she went after the skirmish, nobody knows. For the short time she was there, she certainly made quite the impression."

Mytho sat back in his chair, stroking his chin, tracing over the new marks on his face. "Ah, so my little bird has finally chirped too loud? I figured she would sooner or later, just not at such an opportune time."

"It seems that way. Now, from what I can gather, it seems to have happened the day before the..." She trailed off and grimaced. "It happened a few days ago. But if you hurry, you might still be able to catch her trail. I'm sure the townspeople would be more than happy to tell you about the event if you ask them. They may even point you in the proper direction."

Mytho didn't try to hide his smirk. He could hardly believe that his luck, after having been sour since he escaped that Aldmeri prison, had finally turned sweet once again. He would have jumped and maybe shouted, too, if Halora hadn't appeared to be making herself small after delivering such welcome news to him. "That eager to be rid of me, eh?"

"I suppose I am," she said, sipping her tea. "You were going to leave as soon as you found a lead, weren't you? You can go now. You don't have to waste another second here with me."

Mytho put his arms on the table and leaned forward, looking to see if her eyes would turn to him. They didn't, of course. She was set on pretending he wasn't there. "Hallie, I know you," he said. "That means I also know you didn't have me meet you for such a short conversation. You'd never be that easy to get along with. Why did you really want me to come here?"

Halora lowered her head, her face entirely obscured by the hood as she seemed to shrink into her chair. She sat in silence, holding her teacup close to her chest as she curled lower, almost looking as if she were ready to bring her knees up and complete the motion. When Halora raised back up again, she looked near him, but she didn't look _at_ him. At the table, but not at him. With another elongated, uneasy sip, a quiet slurp signaling that she had run out of tea, she set the cup down on the table. "I..." Halora said, trailing off. "I've decided to resign from my position as Doyen."

Mytho's eyes widened, and he was left sputtering for a response. "You've _what_? You aren't serious, are you?"

Halora lowered her head, and her hands began to fidget in her lap. "I am," she muttered. "The Shadowfoots will act as a council, and decide how to progress until a new Doyen is chosen by the Guildmaster. Whenever he returns, that is."

"But why?" he asked. "How is that any better? Why are you the one resigning?"

Halora sighed restrictively. "Tell me, do you have any idea how many members we lost the other night?"

"The official statement the Count put out said fifteen."

"Seventeen," she corrected. "We lost seventeen. I wouldn't expect the castle gossips to know that two others died from their injuries yesterday. We've buried all of them except for one, and we'll be burying him tonight." She put her arm on the table and leaned on her hand, slowly shaking her head. "After that, we'll probably spend at least the next month picking up the pieces before we restart our operations. Maybe longer, seeing as we can't go about recruiting new members without stirring up suspicion."

"Do you have enough people to last that long?"

"Forty-two more, yes. We can make do with those numbers. With a city this large, it won't be easy. We'll have a lot of sleepless nights ahead, but..." She went silent and shrugged. "I suppose that won't be an issue for me anymore, will it?"

"Hallie, I want you to listen to me," he began, reaching across the table and taking her hand in his. It was cold, like that of a corpse, and oddly still. "There was no way we could've known that we were after the same man. I don't know how he did it, but he set us up. You couldn't have known that he was always two steps ahead of us."

"Luciros told me the same thing after I made my announcement yesterday, but neither of you are looking at this realistically," Halora said. "None of that matters, because I was the one who decided that your brazen plan was the best course of action. You may have come up with the idea, but I chose to enact it, meaning I'm to blame for every loss. I was desperate. I made a mistake. And it cost us dearly." She began squeezing his hand, her lifeless fingers tangled in his as she dropped her head. "It's only fair that I suffer the consequences."

"That's not being realistic, love. That's locking yourself in prison and throwing away the key for a crime someone else committed. You've been in charge of this place for sixteen years now, and this is the first time anything like this has happened. If you're going to blame someone, then blame me. You said it yourself; it was my plan in the first place."

"You realize that doesn't change anything, don't you? Shifting blame doesn't bring the dead back to life."

"You're right, it doesn't," he said, running his thumb over the back of her hand. "But it keeps the living from wishing the same fate on themselves."

Halora's shoulders slumped further, looking as if she were ready to slip out of her chair and onto the floor. "Please, Flor-" She bit down on her lip, sinking her fangs into it. "Mytho. Just let me make this decision. I don't know what else to do."

"You keep fighting. You don't let this stop you. You keep being the same woman that would let the world break on her shoulders and then sweep the pieces up before she was on her way. That's what the Hallie I know would do, and it's what the woman Aressia calls her mother would do."

Halora snatched her hand away from his and removed her glove. "But I'm not her anymore, am I?" she asked, raising it into direct sunlight. Steam lifted from her skin like a pot of water near to boiling, and a faint sizzling sound carried on the breeze. Just when Mytho was about to grab her arm and yank it back, she lowered it and replaced her glove. "My heart doesn't beat anymore, did you know that? But I can hear yours and every other one nearby like they were my own. I can smell every drop of blood from two streets away, sometimes so strongly that I can't focus on anything else. I'm always so cold, no matter how much I try to warm up. And the sunlight hurts me now, like having a burning prod placed on my skin."

She hunched over and buried her face in her hands. "Nearly everyone in the Guild has started looking at me like I'm some sort of monster," Halora said through the gaps between her palms. "As if I'm moments away from going feral. They may not say anything, but I know what they're thinking. I might _look_ like her, but I'm not her. I haven't felt like her since that night, either."

"It's been two days. You can't expect to be the same so soon."

"And why not?" she asked, huffing.

"Well, you've got to finish mourning the people you lost, don't you?"

Halora sighed, the gesture peculiar now that she didn't seem to breathe otherwise, and let her shoulders droop again. For an uncomfortable length of time, she sat in silence. Below them, the world chattered and bustled, like a distant place neither of them could reach. Sitting there across from him, she looked to be a solemn figure, reminding him of the parting words Hassildor had left them with.

Solitude did await her, but only because she seemed insistent on choosing it.

After a while, she raised her head and looked out across the town. "Mytho?"

"What is it, love?"

"What were we?"

Mytho folded his hands on his head and slid down in his chair. "I'm afraid I don't know what you mean," he said.

"When we lived in Aleswell with Little Ari all those years ago, what were we?" she asked, turning slightly to him. "And when we sat around the table at night, all talking, laughing, and acting like we weren't criminals, what were we doing? And those nights when you and I put Ari to bed and barely had time to put our own heads on a pillow before we were both asleep," she paused and made a sound, something Mytho couldn't place the emotion of before she continued. "When we woke up next to each other every morning so we could do it all again, what were we supposed to be?"

"I don't know, Hallie," he said, blowing out through his pursed lips. "I thought we were trying to be the family she needed. I thought that we were trying to give her the childhood she deserved before it was too late, but I don't know if we did anything right by her."

He furrowed his brow. That wasn't good enough. Something, whether it was pride or rationality, demanded that he shut up. He didn't plan on listening to either of them, though. "No, what I should say is that I don't know if _I_ did anything right by her. Or by you, either. I made a lot of mistakes, and I don't think I realized how badly I had mucked things up for you both. It's been so many years, and I'm not sure what I was thinking at the time, but ever since I saw her again in Anvil that night, I haven't been able to stop thinking about how much I've regretted leaving."

He expected Halora to take that opportunity to jab at him. A welcome surprise was all that met him as she remained silent, each second causing her to turn ever so slightly more towards him.

It was a stupid idea that screamed through Mytho's head next, one that he was confident would only cause her to retreat more. But, he had already done enough stupid things, and one more wouldn't hurt. He took her by the hand again, the cold still clinging to her and refusing to let go. He figured until fate decided he had no choice or she grew tired of him, he wouldn't either.

"But if there's one thing I'll never regret," he continued, seeing his chance to finally say something right, "it's the time we all spent together. I spent more time bickering with you over meaningless things than I should have. She wasn't always the most, er, _agreeable_ lass, but you two were more than I've ever had before. And I'm a fool for not seeing that earlier, I suppose."

Halora fully turned to him, her thorough bewilderment on display as she gazed at their joined hands. That was when he was sure she would pull away, throw an insult at him, or do anything besides stare in silence. She did none of those things, but slowly, she began to grip his hand tighter.

And he knew that somehow, for the first time since setting foot in Skingrad, he hadn't done something wrong.

For several minutes, they sat in silence, as difficult as Mytho found that to be. He knew there wasn't anything he could say, only that for once, they both weren't poking at each other's egos. After years of doing that, he had nearly forgotten the comfort of her present silence, the strength of it, and how, without a word, she radiated allure.

It was a shame that by the end of the day, he'd be leaving her once again.

After a bit, someone knocked on the door behind them. Mytho looked over his shoulder to see Luciros leaning against it, his arms folded over his chest.

"Am I interrupting, Madam? Sir?" he asked, looking at them, his expression conveying a hint of amusement.

Halora slipped her hand out of Mytho's and sat up, scratching her cheek with her thumb as she tried to compose herself. "No, it's quite alright, Lu. What's the matter?"

Luciros reached into his coat and produced a letter. "This just arrived for you, Madam. I believe it's from the Guildmaster."

"News of the Imperial City job, then," she said. "That's good. But you needn't bring me his correspondence anymore, or refer to me as Madam."

"It was addressed to you directly, Ma-" He made a face as he handed her the letter. "Halora. I'm afraid I had no choice."

Halora tore her way into the letter and began reading it, her momentary vulnerability having disappeared in no time at all. Whatever was in that letter, he was glad it had given her something else to think about for a bit. At that, Mytho saw a chance to be on his way, and he stood up to go.

"Just a moment," she said without looking up from the letter. She gestured to the case beside her chair. "I had your coat patched up, and your swords repaired while you were being healed. You want them back, don't you?"

"You're too kind to me, love," he said, reaching down to get the case. As he stood up, he glanced at her expression underneath the hood. Stony, as ever, and analytical as one could be. "Now, I've got a few things to take care of before I have to leave for Chorrol, but I'll be on my way soon. If you aren't able to find me later, it'll mean I've already gone."

"Be safe, then," she said, still reading the letter.

Be safe. Something had indeed changed about Halora.

Mytho passed through the door, nodding at Luciros as he headed inside the inn. He spared a moment to don his coat and buckle his swords to his hips, then left the place behind.

 _Now_ , he thought as he joined the bustling crowds flowing through the streets, _you'd better have something for me, lad._

.~~~.

Mytho strolled around the Chapel of Julianos sometime after midday, searching for any sign that Toren was waiting for him. He hadn't seen the boy since he had broken into Castle Skingrad and left him at the base of the wall. Wherever he had gone after that, Mytho didn't care to know so long as it was somewhere safe.

But if he had to guess, it likely involved heavy drinking.

More importantly, he cared to know was if Toren had at last found the man he wanted him to. As he rounded the corner of the Chapel, he found Toren relaxing underneath a shoddy cloth tent, hands folded behind his head, fast asleep. A tiny campfire with smoke still lifting from the burned wood was placed in front of him, a makeshift cooking spit over that, and only a satchel to round out his hovel.

It seemed that he had put that coin to good use, too. He was dressed far better than he had been last time, looking like a peasant with two, perhaps _three_ coins to rub together.

"Do you ever do anything besides sleep, lad?" Mytho asked, squatting in front of the tent.

Toren bolted upright, knocking his head against the top of his little dwelling. "I wasn't!" he said, wiping his arm across his chin. "I was only...erm..."

Mytho raised an eyebrow at him.

"Oh, who am I fooling?" Toren asked, flopping back down. "Fine. You caught me. But I don't see why I shouldn't be resting while I can. It's a fine day, and the Divines didn't put us here to waste our lives working."

Mytho rested his hands on his hips as he turned around, shaking his head. "No wonder you're living in a pile of trash."

Toren lobbed a pebble at him, not even coming close to hitting his mark as it rolled harmlessly away. "Well, excuse me! Some of us don't have the option of robbing castles when we're bored!"

"If you've got nothing better to do, what's keeping you?"

"My preference for living, for starters. And my aversion to death."

"Aye, and those are as good of reasons as any," Mytho said, wagging his finger. He strode around the tent, circling it a few times as Toren looked at him in silence. The boy's face was one part confused – a look he wore better than the tailored pair of trousers he had on – and another part frustrated.

"That's it?" he asked, standing to his feet, grass and dirt stains on the back of his clothes that weren't going to be brushed off, despite his efforts to do just that. "No lessons or excuses or even telling me that I don't understand? What's gotten into you?"

Mytho shrugged. "I don't see a reason to take apart your logic, so I won't. You've decided that you want to do something, so you've done it. Who gives a damn that I wouldn't do the same?"

Toren rolled his eyes. "Oh, I see what you're getting at. Wow, sir, what a mind you have!"

"I didn't ask for any sarcasm, lad," Mytho said, flicking him on the forehead as he passed. "I just wanted to make sure you haven't forgotten anything I've told you. I'm going to be on my way later this evening, meaning I won't be able to put anything else into that thick skull of yours."

"So, you did find Ilawe. I hadn't heard from you yet, so I assumed that must've been the case. Oh, and I heard the man went missing the other night. You didn't have anything to do with that, did you, sir?"

Mytho sat down in the grass and leaned on his elbows, letting the sun warm him. "About that," he said, blowing out a breath. "Things didn't go quite as planned, as I'm sure you've heard by now."

Toren looked at him, skepticism in his eyes, and sat down across from him. "Seeing as I had blacked out from, er, drink before midnight, assume that I haven't."

Mytho hadn't been interested in retelling everything that fateful night had in store for them, but he soon found that he didn't have much choice. Toren, true to his inquisitive self, pressed him for answers and anything he could use as an excuse to continue lazing about. After all that Mytho had been through, he felt that he could use some time to relax before he departed. So, for nearly an hour, Mytho told him of all that had happened. He told him of his rampage through the castle, what he found inside Ilawe's room, the clash that it led to, and what had become of Halora, eager as he was to forget that tidbit.

Toren found the story fascinating, at least, if he was convinced it was embellished.

"Well, I suppose that would explain the rumors I've been hearing," Toren said, sitting with his arms across his knees. "Ever since the other night, the whole city has been in a tizzy. It's mostly talk about you and your clash with the Vigilante. What isn't about that is about the execution of those Guild members. And some of the guards have been a little, ah, _loose-lipped_ about other matters, let's say."

"Anything worth retelling?"

Toren sighed. "I'm afraid so. Count Ris has put a bounty on your head."

"I'd be offended if he didn't. For breaking and entering?"

Toren shook his head. "Yes, but also for the kidnapping and potential murder of Ilawe," he said. "And that man you said you bumped into after leaving his chambers has been executed for failing in his duty. Poor man, he didn't do anything other than being in a bad place at an even worse time."

Mytho wanted to spit a curse. He knew that was a loose end that needed tying up. Only after the guard had blabbed about "Ilawe's" secret did he intend on doing so, however. But with the man already dead and the truth about Skingrad's steward probably lost, Mytho figured he'd simply have to be glad there wasn't a need to return to the castle one final time before he left the city. But questions would still linger; did Count Ris know about Janus? Was he another pawn in the game?

Someday, when he had the time, he'd have to pay the jolly Count a visit. Unannounced, of course. He'd find his answers, then. "Anything else?"

Toren's brow furrowed. "Not particularly, but I've been thinking. When we went into the castle together, didn't you say that the Vigilante had been watching us the entire time?"

"I did, yes. What of it?"

"Well," Toren's face scrunched up in his thoughtful pause, "they've been saying that Ilawe predicted the Thieves Guild would be making a move that night. He told the Count, and the Count increased patrols in the city to counteract their plan. And, since Ilawe was both Janus and the Vigilante, do you think that maybe it was our doing? The reason he became suspicious, I mean."

Mytho felt a jolting chill as the dots connected rapidly in his head. He knew that Janus had seen him and Toren as they broke into the castle that night, but had that been the damning evidence he needed? Had that been the cause of Halora's plans going awry?

Had he been the one to blame for those deaths?

"I don't know," Toren said. "That may be jumping to conclusions. I thought I would ask you, sir."

Mytho ran his fingers through his hair. How could one boy be so daft and so perceptive at once? "It's hard to say," Mytho grumbled, shoving his worry deep inside his gut. "It may have been just a coincidence."

Toren's eyes narrowed at him, but he didn't press any further. "If you say so," he said, relaxing his suspicious gaze. "And you'll be off to Chorrol next? It's not too far of a ride from here, is it?"

"I estimate a day if I take the most direct route," Mytho said, laying on his back with one arm shielding his face from the sun. "It'll be a rougher ride than I like, I'm sure, but I can't delay too long or else I'll risk losing the girl. Which brings me to my next bit of business with you."

Toren's ears pricked up, and he raised his head. "More?"

"Of course," Mytho said. "See, I've got a long, lonely road ahead of me, lad. I won't have much time to rest, and it's likely going to get rather dangerous from this point on, even for someone as daring, skilled, resourceful..."

"Please, get to your damned point."

"As you wish," Mytho said, standing up, his muscles still sore from the exhaustive working he had given them a few nights prior. "To put it plainly, I want to give you a choice. It isn't a choice I want you to take lightly, either. I want you to think about what you want out of life, and I want you to be sure of your decision. Do you think you can be?"

"Of course," Toren said. "What kind of man do you take me for?"

"The kind that's too young to say those sorts of things confidently, to be frank," he said, chuckling. "But, that aside, tell me, have you ever thought of leaving Skingrad? Have you ever thought of seeing the rest of the world? You ever wondered if there's more to life than fighting for scraps, and living under the feet of those who tossed them down to you?"

"That was why I left my pa," Toren said. "Don't you remember?"

"Then how about this," Mytho reached his hand down to Toren. "Seeing as I'll be leaving today, and not coming back, you could leave another time in your life, this time from Skingrad. I'd welcome the company."

Toren launched to his feet, not even taking Mytho's hand to help himself up. "Do you mean that?" he said, his smile exuberant. He ran his hands through his hair, his eyes as wide as his gaping mouth as he paced around in disbelief. "B-but first, I have to ask, sir. Why me? Why not anyone else? There has to be someone else in town you'd rather have by your side."

"I won't deny that, but only one person was with me when I sneaked into Castle Skingrad the first time," he said, jabbing his thumb into Toren's chest. "That was you, lad. You're a little green when it comes to, well, damned near everything besides drinking. Give me a little bit of time, though, and I'll have you worthy of that gaudy blade I gave you. So..." He trailed off and reached out his hand again. "As two men, both of us free as the breeze, with the will and strength to decide our own futures, what do you say?"

Toren looked over his dirty dwelling, over the trash and soil, over the tattered tent he called his home and the smoking kindling. Then, he looked to the Chapel. He was smiling, but there was also melancholy in that look, the kind Mytho knew well. He had experienced it himself, that feeling of change happening so quickly there wasn't time to grieve what was lost. But under that melancholy was hope, like the sun peeking over the horizon after a fierce storm. Because of that, he wasn't surprised when Toren reached down to collect his satchel, threw it over his shoulder, and clasped his hand around Mytho's. "When do we leave?"

Mytho grabbed him by the wrist and shook on it, sealing the deal. "As soon as you tell me where to find that man I asked you about," he said. "You did find him for me, didn't you?"

Toren smirked. "I've had my eyes on him since the day you asked me."

.~~~.

A horse's whinny wasn't something Mytho imagined giving him restless legs, but that very thing happened as the carriage driver urged the animal to move. He hadn't been on a cart in a long while – they were often too slow for his tastes – but with the sun setting beautifully on Skingrad, bathing the wine-scented airs in orange, he could find a way to enjoy the leisurely pace. At least, he would try his best to appreciate it for the short time he had spared for this long-awaited meeting. He didn't intend on staying long, just enough time to learn what he needed, and not a second more.

After that, he'd be sure.

A young man no older than twenty-five sat across from Mytho as they departed. A hefty, jingling bag was held between his feet as he sat hunched over, his fingers tugging on the strap to keep it from sliding away. He had been easy to spot as he approached the cart, standing a head taller than most anyone else, and having more muscle than those he didn't. He was a Nord if Mytho ever knew one, the look of the northern folk on him with his blond hair and a ruddy complexion. Yet in contrast to his imposing stature, he appeared to have a gentle soul, stepping lightly and speaking even softer. And, if Mytho had to pick out another notable trait, he seemed to be uncomfortable as they rode away from the city.

That wasn't what he hoped to learn first about the man, he'd admit. "Something bothering you, lad?" Mytho said, putting his arms over the back of the cart, one leg folded over the other. "You look tense."

The man glanced up at him and made a face. "It's that obvious?" he asked, exhaling. "Ah, well, if there's no point in denying it, I won't bother. I've never liked these long trips through the wilderness. Always seems like bandits are lurking just out of sight."

Mytho rolled his eyes in their sockets. "That's probably because they are."

The man didn't appear to be set at ease with the truth. "Perhaps we'll make the trip safely, then," he said, pulling on the strap again. "To tell you the truth, I'm glad to be leaving Skingrad. With all that's happened recently with the Thieves Guild, that Vigilante, and the Phantom, I don't think I can reach Anvil soon enough."

"Now, that's a lovely city," Mytho said, wagging his finger. "Busy port, quiet inside the walls, decently wealthy. Do you live there?"

"With my wife, I do," he said with a nod. "I work the forge, and she minds our store. We sell jewelry mostly, but I repair weapons and armor on occasion. I'm no master smith, so most don't come to me unless they're looking for something shiny. It's profitable enough work, though, and I enjoy the artistry of it."

"Most men aren't masters before their hair's gone gray," Mytho said. "You've got time, lad."

The man chuckled softly, a form of agreement, perhaps. "Or, I suppose I should say it won't be just the two of us for too much longer," he said. "My wife's pregnant, you see. Our first. She says we're having a girl."

"Congratulations, then. I have a daughter myself. Er, adopted, that is." Mytho extended his hand to the man. "Fadus is my name."

"Tobias," he said, returning the gesture. "Are you a mercenary of some sort, Fadus? I've only met a few men wearing two swords, and all of them knew how to use them."

"Aye, you might say that," he said, snickering.

Tobias' shoulders lifted in a relaxed manner. "Then, I'm glad to have you along for the journey. I've already had one trip go sour in my life, and I'd rather not have another if I can avoid it."

"Oh?"

Tobias nodded. "I came from Skyrim with a large caravan a few years ago. Along the way, just outside of Aleswell, we were attacked by bandits. I managed to survive, but..." He trailed off and gripped his bag tightly. "The rest weren't so lucky. And I only survived because my wife happened to be nearby at the time. Saved my sorry hide and helped me all the way to town. She spent the next few months with me as I recovered from the arrow that had gone through my chest. Only left my side when she had no choice."

"She sounds like a wonderful lass, er, woman," Mytho said. "What's her name?"

Tobias' face lit up with a warm smile, its radiance the kind that few were capable of. "Aressia," he said, exhaling as if simply speaking her name took his breath away. "All I can say is that she's far better than I deserve. That's why, as soon as I was healthy enough to leave Aleswell, I asked her to come with me. I don't know why the Divines sent her my way, but I can't imagine life without her now."

Mytho hid his smirk. Toren had found the correct man, after all. "I suppose the only way you can pay them back is by treating her kindly, wouldn't you say?"

"I wouldn't dream of acting any other way," he said, looking as if he were offended at the notion of doing otherwise. He paused for a moment, his brow furrowing deeper with each passing second until he looked at Mytho again. "But, well, for a reason I'm not sure of, she began to act distant before I left for Skingrad. I'm not sure what I could've done to upset her."

"Do you think that she wanted to come with you?"

Tobias shook his head. "At first she did, despite me telling her it wasn't safe."

Mytho gripped the back of the seat and narrowed his eyes at Tobias.

"But that changed one day about a week before I left," he continued, not aware of his precarious position. "Now, she's never been one to sleep late, always has been awake before me. But that morning it didn't look like she'd shut her eyes once all night. When I asked her what had kept her up, she told me she thought the baby had been kicking. Said she couldn't stop thinking about it."

"And you forced her to stay home after that?"

"I don't think I could force her to do anything she didn't want to do," he said, laughing slightly. "From then on, it was as if she couldn't get me out of the house fast enough. I don't know what came over her, only that she started behaving strangely after that morning. When we'd talk, she'd start daydreaming until I asked her what was wrong. When it was time to sleep, she'd stay awake and wait until she thought I was asleep before she slipped out of bed to go downstairs."

"Sounds like she's got a lot on her mind."

"With the baby coming at the end of Morning Star, I don't doubt it," he said, scratching nervously at the back of his neck. "I suppose since it was also a bit of surprise, it's only made things more difficult for her."

"You don't seem bothered by that."

"I'm terrified, to tell you the truth," Tobias said simply. "We had talked about children before, but I didn't imagine having any so soon. I suppose life doesn't always unfold the way we plan, though, does it?"

"Hardly," Mytho said, shrugging.

Tobias looked at his feet and at the bag as it jostled back and forth. "Even still, as long as I've got her by my side, I know I don't have to be afraid of how things will turn out. And when she is, I can help her see that she doesn't have to be, either." Tobias leaned back, looking towards the sunset. "It's like my pa once told me; a family isn't made of one person bearing the weight of the rest. It's everyone carrying each other, no matter how hard that is, and that's the way I aim to be. I know she'd do the same. Already has, actually."

Hearing that, Mytho loosened his grip on the back of the seat and sighed, feeling as if he were losing justified reasons to nitpick. Something about honest people made him queasy, especially when their words held an equally sincere conviction. But, simple as the words had been, they would do well enough for now. He wanted to spend more time, dig deeper into the man's head for answers, and find his limits, but he knew there wasn't any more to waste. Otherwise, he'd never live long enough to see if the man would be as good a father as he hoped.

 _You were right, Hallie,_ he thought, exhaling the tension that had been held in his chest. _She found a good one._

Tobias looked at him, his face perplexed. "Something the matter, Fadus? It isn't bandits, is it?"

Mytho shook his head and stood to his feet in the cart. He put his foot on the back of his seat, scanning for his way through the vineyards on either side of the road. He paused for a moment to look over his shoulder at Tobias, who only seemed to be growing more befuddled.

"You're a good man," Mytho said. "And you'd better stay that way if you know what's good for you."

With nothing more to say, he leaped off the cart and made for the vineyards. Behind him, he could hear Tobias calling his name, soon trying to convince the driver to stop. What he didn't know was that the man had already been paid to keep his mouth shut, and to keep driving no matter who told him to stop. Mytho strolled deep into the fields, passing through them until he reached the shady trees where Toren was supposed to be waiting.

Toren was in the clearing, tugging at his horse, spitting curses as Empress wandered around in circles. When he saw Mytho, his eyes begged for pity. "Sir!" he shouted. "Something's upset them!"

Mytho waved his hand as he approached Empress and ran his hand along her back as soon as he was close. With her tail swishing back and forth, her head held high, she was clearly listening for something. When Mytho heard a rustling in the underbrush, he unsheathed his blades and turned to face the noise.

Luciros stood at their ends, a teasing smile on his dull face. "I thought we had all but buried our animosity, Phantom."

Mytho lowered his swords and slid them back into their coverings. "Aye, I thought we had, too," he said, stepping around him. "Any reason you've come out here? Not to see us off in a teary goodbye, surely."

Luciros gestured behind himself towards the shadows cast by the thick trees. In them, Mytho could see two scarlet eyes looking back.

"That's because we haven't," Halora said as she strode through the tall field grass. "Not teary, anyway, but I suppose I may as well see you again before you go."

"Going somewhere, love?" he asked, taking note of what she was wearing. She always was one for finery, even on her traveling outfits. "Or are you out on the prowl?"

She peered behind him, her eyes squinted at the distant roads. "If you wanted to meet her husband, I could've arranged something for you. You didn't need to keep it yourself."

"Would you have, though?"

"Perhaps not," she said, shaking her head. "I suppose it doesn't really matter now. I'm leaving Skingrad. Tonight."

Mytho looked back at Toren, who was still fighting to keep his horse under control. "Well, if it'd give me someone else to chat with aside from the lad, I'd more than welcome your..."

"Unless you're headed to the Imperial City, I won't be traveling with you," she said, producing the letter Luciros had given her earlier. "The Guildmaster made it clear that he needs me there as soon as possible. As long as Luciros doesn't need to rest, I don't plan on stopping until I arrive."

"Good news?"

Halora looked at her feet, her face a forming a hard expression. "I'm afraid not," she said. "It's not particularly bad news, either. The city has become increasingly dangerous over the past month, and they've had to burn two hideouts so far. No one has been caught, but last time their hideout was compromised, he had to split our numbers in half and send some to the eastern side of the city. Meanwhile, he took what was left to the west."

Mytho shook his head and set his hands on his hips. "Ra'hur always was one to play hide-and-seek with the Legion. But why's he going through all that trouble if it's just the Empire's men after him? What else is happening in that city that's sent him running like a kitten?"

Halora's eyes narrowed fiercely at the ground, her grimace an omen. "It's Marceau," she hissed. "I don't believe he's found them or else I probably wouldn't have received a letter. Ra'hur seems to think he's getting close, however."

"Damn," Mytho spat. "Too close to keep everyone in one place?"

Halora nodded, but her face only grew more severe. "I have no idea what he wants me there for," she said, holding her arms around herself as if she wanted to shiver. "If they've brought the Dragon himself down from the Tower, though, I can't imagine it's anything good."

Mytho looked at her, watching as her eyes flicked up at him and back down to her feet again. "And you came all this way just to tell me that?"

"No, I..." Halora began to gnaw on her lip as she always did when she was anxious, wincing as she tore into it with her fangs. She drew her shoulders closer together, her head hanging low, and her mouth stretched thin. "I don't care what you have to do," she said, rising up and locking her eyes on his. "I don't care if you have to give your right arm to do it. I don't even care if you have to cross swords with a Daedric Prince. No matter what happens, no matter what it takes, you had better not break her heart again." She stepped close, leaving him unable to look anywhere else but down at her face, her vampiric features making her more intimidating than ever. "Do I make myself clear?"

"I don't plan to," Mytho said. "Whatever it takes, I'll make things right. You have my word."

Halora glared at him for a few seconds longer, her eyes narrowed into lines, searching his until she found what she had wanted. She stepped back and turned away, snapping her fingers and signaling to Luciros that she was leaving.

"One more thing before you go, love," Mytho called out, causing her to stop just before she could vanish into the shadowy trees once more. "We've got until then end of Morning Star before the baby's born. Almost five months, if we're lucky."

Halora wobbled as if she had been hit square in the back, prompting Luciros to reach out and steady her with a hand on her shoulder. "Then, for your sake," she said, letting out a long exhale, "you had better hurry."

With nothing more to say, she took Luciros and departed. As quickly as she had appeared, she was gone again, leaving in her absence that consuming desire to chase her down, and Mytho loathed that he couldn't indulge himself in it.

"Sir?" Toren called out, snapping him out of his trance. "Shouldn't we be going, too? The sun's going to be setting soon, and I'd like to get the city behind us."

Mytho looked one last time to where Halora had gone and felt a twinge of worry for her. But, true to who she always was, he knew she'd find her way – vampire or not.

She always had been one of the most stubborn women in Tamriel, and that was one of the things he loved most about her.

"Aye," he said, leaping into the saddle, causing Empress to neigh and trot forward with barely a prompt, "let's ride."


	29. Countdown

29

.~~~.

Suleh held the bubbling vial at eye level, swishing it back and forth until the mixture turned from dull gray to glistening cyan. Even though she had been mixing potions since before she could form a proper sentence, the joy of a successful brew never faded. But, as her father had told her many years ago, judging a potion by sight alone would be a novice mistake. An alchemist's most crucial sense was their smell. The first sign of a failing mixture was always accompanied by a peculiar odor, perhaps a sound next if it were going to explode, but what should never be used is touch. Many a would-be master had their dreams dashed when they decided to uncork a bottle and pour it onto their skin, only to find their hand in a fizzling puddle on the floor before they could blink.

As Suleh inhaled the scent of the magicka potion, fanning underneath her nose to make sure not a wisp of air was wasted, she grinned at the hint of blackberries it carried – a sign of potency. After pushing a cork into the top of the vial, she gathered up the rest of the potions she had made and spun on her heel. Humming a tune, she bounced away from her alchemy table toward the main room of the apothecary. There, she placed them one by one into their proper places on the shelves, both high and low, each clearly marked with a label. Once she was done, she strolled around the counter, leaped onto the tall stool behind it, and made herself comfortable, imagining it would probably be a bit before anyone stopped in.

Yawning, Suleh gripped the stool and leaned back, peering outside the window and into the streets of Chorrol as the people went about their daily routines.

Such a dull city. And awash with such vibrant autumn colors, too.

It hadn't taken long after the bandit raid for the people of Chorrol to return to their routine lives, almost less than two days. Not that anything was keeping them from doing just that anyway since the only difference in the town was that the walls no longer enclosed it all. And a section had been burned to the ground. And the sounds of construction went on at all hours, including during the night when she was more than busy brewing delicate potions. It made it somewhat difficult for Suleh to focus on her work, actually.

But other than that, life was back to its hum-drum cycle.

Suleh groaned and sank onto the counter, overwhelmed by the thick air of boredom packed between the four walls of her apothecary. All around her, bottles fizzled and popped and clanked when they touched, all having their own tiny lives full of excitement. Even Isro, having been thrust into his new role as Lieutenant, had plenty of new duties to occupy his time, so much that she hadn't spoken to him in three days now. She had seen him, of course, directing the other guards with such authority and confidence it was as if he was born to give commands. Their lack of conversation aside, she knew better than to bother him when he was working, and she wasn't keen on being lectured from someone seven years younger than her.

Not again, anyway.

But for Suleh, the sudden drop-off from the tumultuous few days she had had during Ysa's visit to the comparatively banal left her reeling and anxious, not at ease as it should have done. After she had all but quashed any lingering symptoms of the witch's curse within the city, she expected to find the time spent off her aching feet a welcome change of pace, not a torturous routine she was eager to end. It wasn't as if she wanted another curse or bandit raid to leave the city in shock and in shambles, but _s_ _omething_ would've sufficed.

Instead, all she could do was watch in solitude as the city was pieced back together, all under the watchful eye of the Vigil of Stendarr as they searched for the source of recent "Daedric activity."

Twice they had shown up on her doorstep and twice she had let them search her home. Both times, they had come up empty-handed, leaving begrudgingly and not even trying to clean up the messes they had made. The first time, she had shouted an insult at them as they left for being so rude, which was perhaps the very reason they had come back later that day, claiming they had cause to continue their investigation. That time, she decided to "accidentally" spill a shelf's worth of potions on those rakish robes of theirs.

Of course, it hadn't been an accident. It also wasn't an accident that those stains were going to be almost impossible to remove, requiring something in particular to clean. She had made sure of that.

With another yawn, she stood from the stool and sprawled out on the counter, burying her face in her arms as she made herself comfortable and shut her eyes.

It was so horribly dull, and the fact she wasn't going to be seeing her dearest friend ever again only made the sting of loneliness worsen by the hour. Suleh wished they had had more time, not just for her own sake but for Ysadette's. She had been able to tell from the moment she arrived – that odd Mentor of hers in tow and babbling nonsensically – that something was terribly wrong. There should have been three of them, all traveling in tandem with Ysa somewhere in the middle of their happy trio. Instead, only two had shown up on her doorstep, one looking far worse than she feared. If Ysadette's letter hadn't confirmed Suleh's fears after the sky was clouded with smoke that morning during Last Seed, the dark look in her eyes as she searched desperately for her necklace did.

As much as Suleh had wanted to speak with her about that night in the woods, she hadn't had any idea how to begin. Her only attempt made Ysadette snap at her, and after that, Suleh had let the silence between them last until there wasn't time to try again. Even when she nearly did just before Ysa departed, all Suleh could do was fall apart and sob a goodbye to her.

For that reason, she had trouble fending off the prickly touch of worry jabbing her in the back when all was quiet. She was worried for Ysa, of course, for her Mentor, and what would become of them once they reached the Imperial City. It had been almost three whole days since they had left, meaning the trip was likely nearing its end.

Suleh imagined she nearly smirked at that, a minuscule amount of cheer having set her worry on edge. She could almost hear Ysa in her head, squawking about how slow the ride was, and about how her rear was sore the whole way. When Suleh and Isro crossed Hammerfell with her almost a decade ago, Ysadette had done that very thing. Only when the beating sun caused her to shrink beneath her hood, grumbling to herself until she was able to bury her nose in a book were they granted a moment's reprieve, and some things, Suleh figured, didn't change.

No matter what else had.

The door clicked open, causing Suleh to roll toward the edge of the counter. With a yelp and a grab for the corner, she slid off and fell into the floor, the wood hard against her shoulder as she landed. She winced and sat up, looking over the potential customer who had startled her, biting her tongue to keep from cursing.

A tall man stood in the doorway, one hand lingering on the doorknob as he looked down at her, a teasing smirk turning his lips sideways. "Not expecting visitors?" he asked as he shut the door behind himself, silencing the noise save for the thumping of his boots and the flapping of his coattails as he crossed the room.

Suleh peered outside the window, catching the unexpected sight of an orange and pink-tinted sky – the sun already behind the walls across town. When she had settled onto the counter, it was barely past midday. She began to scramble to her feet, wiping the drool from her chin, a fresh round of curses bubbling in her throat. Before she could properly stand, however, the man was standing over her. His head slightly bowed at her, he took her by the hand, providing something for Suleh to steady herself on as she raised from the dusty floor.

He smirked again as she looked him in the face, his weathered skin creasing in a decidedly mocking way. "I'll take that as a yes," he said, patting Suleh on the shoulders to dust her off. When he was done, he set his hands on his hips just above the two swords he had buckled on either side and leaned back on his heels. "I hope you're still selling potions, though. I could use some before I take to the road again."

Suleh stepped back against the counter, narrowing her eyes as she looked him over.

He was an Imperial, and a fair bit older than most other adventuring sorts she had met. If Suleh were to guess, he was likely in his forties, a sign of experience in the grueling world, she had learned. Around his temples, stripes of gray stood out in contrast to the deep black of his tousled hair. His expression didn't seem to shift from it's resting tease, his eyes squinted, one brow raised, and lips drawn into a lopsided grin.

Then, as Suleh was noticed she was graduallylosing herself taking in every detail of him, in his lazy, amber eyes, she realized he probably was keenly aware of that fact as well.

"Yes!" she said, her face flushing hot all the way to her ears as she turned away. Think, think. She hurriedly crawled over the counter and dropped behind it. "W-welcome to Suleh's Alchemy Emporium!" she shouted louder than she meant to, raising her hands high. "We, er, _I_ sell anything you can think of! I mean, I sell almost anything alchemical! And if I don't have it on the shelf, I can certainly mix whatever you need!"

 _Wonderful,_ Suleh thought. _You really made a mess of that one._ _Satakal, please don't let him leave._

The man blew out a small chuckle – whether pitiful or not, Suleh wasn't sure – but he didn't immediately turn and leave. A sloppy win. Something must've kept him interested, she thought.

He strode to the counter, his steps delicate and catlike, his eyes darting around the room, periodically stopping on her long enough to make her heart beat faster. "Well, aren't you the fun sort," he said, leaning his back against the counter, his elbows flaring out behind him, one leg kicked in front of the other. "You wouldn't happen to know where a man could get some poisons, would you?"

"I said anything, didn't I?" Suleh said, swatting at his back as she spun around. She squatted behind the counter and began to dig around on the shelves. "What kind do you need?"

"Some for draining magicka, if you have them," the man said, his accented voice carrying throughout the room.

Suleh nudged the bottles aside, grumbling to herself underneath the clanking glass. "I'm fresh out!" she said. "I could brew some for you later, but I'm not expecting the next shipment of ingredients to arrive until tomorrow morning. Would you take some for stunting its regeneration, perhaps?"

"I suppose that'll do, aye," he said.

Suleh grabbed two bottles and raised up, setting them on the counter. As the man turned around, she looked him over once more. "I don't believe I've seen you around here before," she said. "Are you new?"

The man hooked the potion bottles to one of the belts crossing over his chest, only giving her a cursory glance as he did so. "I suppose you could say I'm new, aye," he said, chuckling.

"Oh! Where are you from?" she asked.

He raised his eyebrows. "That's a difficult question to answer, miss, and I'm afraid I don't have the time to explain why."

"A mysterious type, eh?" she said, squinting at him as his gaze floated past hers, apparently searching for something she wasn't aware of. "I suppose that's one way to be."

For a moment, he seemed to notice her cautious scrutiny. "It's a shame I only stopped in after all that business with the bandits was over," he said, his smile faltering before it grew again, this time more impish than before. "Chorrol's a nice, calm place to live other than that, it seems."

Suleh returned his playful smile with her own. "Oh, boo," she said. "You're just in town to follow rumors, is that it? Nothing else? And here I thought you wouldn't be as boring as the rest of the people in this city."

The man leaned on the counter, propping himself up on one elbow as he drew closer to her. "I don't know about that," he crooned. "Most would say I'm one of the more interesting men in the Empire, once you get to know me."

"Really?" Suleh asked, laughing sarcastically. "Well, it's a shame you're only stopping in town for a little bit, isn't it?"

"Aye, it is," he said curtly, reaching into his coat pocket, a folded paper held between his fingers. He set the page down on the counter and slid it under Suleh's hand, piquing her curiosity yet again and with even less effort than before. "I've been across half of Cyrodiil already looking for someone in particular. Everybody's heard of her, but hardly anyone's met her, and seeing as Chorrol was the last place she was sighted in, I may as well ask around while I'm here."

"Well, you can ask me almost anything," she said. "I just might have an answer."

"I'd rather you just look at the paper there, lass. Tell me if it jogs your memory."

Suleh sighed and stepped back, unfolding the page as she stared at the man quizzically. He hadn't struck her as the impatient sort, so why the sudden change? A disappointment, to be sure, but perhaps there was still time to make a sale. With a gesture, the man urged her to look away from him and down at the paper, an eager, almost hungry look in his eye.

Suleh casually looked down, barely able to find the motivation to do so.

Her breath hitched in her throat. Her fingers clenched involuntarily around the page as she looked at the face depicted.

It couldn't be, but it _had_ to be. It was familiar, not quite perfect, but still frighteningly close to reality. Written underneath it was the one name she didn't expect to see again, had all but considered lost forever.

Ysadette Ence.

Suleh's heart beat rapidly in her chest, growing faster with each second as fear washed over her thoughts and made her head swim. She stared at the page, blinking her eyes, hoping that the face would somehow morph into another and that the name would vanish from the page, so she didn't have to acknowledge reality.

This man, he wasn't just in town for potions. He was looking for Ysa. Suleh didn't know why, and she didn't want to know. All she knew was that he was on her trail, only one step behind her.

She sheepishly looked at the man, only seeing his widening smirk as it lost its seductiveness in favor of becoming horrifying.

"Something the matter, miss?" he asked, raising an eyebrow, his grin widening in a painfully knowing manner. "You're looking pale."

"Erm," Suleh said, fighting her urge to tear the paper to shreds as she dropped it on the counter. "I'm sorry. I inhaled some fumes from a bad brew earlier this morning. Terrible stuff! Enough to make my nose hairs burn for half an hour!" She wiped her forearm across her forehead. "I-I didn't think it would be enough to make me ill, but I must've been wrong."

"Maybe you ought to sit down?" he said, leaning over the counter. "I'd like to ask you a few questions before I leave, and I can't have you knocking your head on anything."

Suleh balled her fists at her sides and tried to keep from shaking. Damn it, he was playing with her – poking and prodding just to get a reaction.

And she had been giving him just what he wanted.

"I..." she trailed off, working her jaw around in a quick circle to gain a fleeting second to think. "I'm afraid I don't know anything about that woman. I've never seen her name, and I've never seen her face. I'm sorry. You'll have to check with someone else in town for information."

The man's smirk didn't waver despite being delivered news she thought would break his composure. "It's no trouble at all, thank you for your time," he said, stuffing the page back into his coat. "I'll admit, I was hoping I wouldn't have to keep knocking on doors, but it looks to me I don't have much choice."

He pushed off the counter, turning towards the door with a cautiously withheld spring in his step. Before he left, the man looked over his shoulder at Suleh, causing her heart to skip a beat again, and blew out a pitied laugh. "Oh, and thank you for the potions, lass."

As he shut the door behind him, he only glanced at her out of the side of his eye, his perceptive gaze freezing Suleh in place. The click of the door was deafening – a grim bell resounding, signaling a fate she didn't want to imagine. When he was gone, she slumped against the counter, nearly retching at the floor.

What did he know about Ysadette already? He had her name, something that only a few people in all of Tamriel knew, and he knew that she had been here.

Suleh swallowed the burning lump in her throat.

He knew Ysadette was the Lady-In-Flames, then. He had to. There wasn't any other way he could've known Chorrol was the last place she had been sighted. Had he simply been keen enough to make the connection, or was he…

 _Gods,_ she thought. _Gods damn it._

Suleh ran her hands through her hair, mumbling curses to herself as she realized she was little more than a stuck pig, squealing before the slaughter.

She buried her face in her hands, waiting until the room stopped spinning as she struggled to find a way to react.

What was she supposed to do? She couldn't leave, she couldn't call for help or else he would know something was wrong. No, she had to do _something._ If only she could think of what that something was.

.~~~.

It was clear that alchemist – Saleh or Suleh, whatever her name had been – knew something. She had the information he wanted, that much was obvious. Her reactions and how she had nearly collapsed at the sight of that girl's face were plenty to give Mytho reassurance of that fact. After spending the better part of the day interrogating that guard-in-training – who was little more than a boy wearing a man's uniform – he was glad to see that the visit hadn't been a complete waste of his time. Knocking the poor lad unconscious after was done and dumping him behind the local tavern in a pile of emptied ale bottles was another matter altogether, but one he figured Toren was going to have no trouble completing.

Still, Mytho hadn't expected the alchemist to play into his trap so easily, nor had he expected her to wind herself around his fingers so willingly. If it hadn't been a puff to his ego to see her falling over herself for him, he might've felt bad for what he had done. But rummaging through her apothecary in broad daylight wasn't something he was keen to do, not unless he wanted to fight off the whole city before he could leave. Instead, he decided to wait until nightfall, when the rest of the people would be sleeping.

As Mytho strode up to the door, he paused to carefully twist the knob.

"It's locked, isn't it?" Toren said, stepping lightly as he approached from behind, his head held low as he sighed. He straightened his hood and glanced to the side at the distant sound of hammering at the wall. "You didn't honestly think she'd leave it open for us, did you?"

"Not unless she aims to lure us into a trap," Mytho said, wagging his finger. "It wouldn't be the first time that's happened, and I'd rather be safe than have my face turned inside out. Or whatever it is most flower-sniffers like doing to the people that cross them."

Behind him, Mytho could almost hear Toren trying to come up with a witty retort. "I didn't think of that," he grumbled, crossing his arms in front of his chest.

"That's why you're with me, though, isn't it, lad?" Mytho said, stepping back from the doorstep and into the street. He placed his hand on Toren's shoulder as he passed, shaking him back and forth. "Keep your mind sharp and listen to your instincts, even if they aren't saying nice things about the people around you. You'll learn."

"That's great advice, sir," Toren said, "but if the door's locked, how are we supposed to get ourselves inside without causing a scene?"

Mytho walked further into the street and spun around, locking his eyes on the second-floor window. "See that there?" he said, gesturing until Toren's slow-witted mind dragged his eyes to the right place. "First, I'm going to need you to go back to the tavern. Then, I'll need you to buy all the butter they have and bring it back here to me. You'll need some coin, so I hope you..."

"Would you be serious?" Toren asked, interrupting him.

Mytho shrugged and walked toward the door again. "You're no fun," he said. "Since you're in such a hurry, I'll get to it." He braced himself on his heel, and with his other foot, he smashed the door in, breaking one hinge in the process.

"By the Eight!" Toren said, whipping his head back and forth, tugging at his hood until his eyes were hidden. "Are you insane?"

" _Efficient_ ," Mytho said, jabbing his finger at him. "Now, let's not waste time debating semantics. I'm sure she heard that."

A cloak of darkness covered every corner of the apothecary as Mytho stepped inside, save for the tiny glows of potions on the shelves, their magical properties on full display. The air was thick, both with tension and with varying flora scents, some powerful enough to make the inside of Mytho's nose tickle.

First, he would find the alchemist. After he had her secured and quiet, it would be time to search her home, hopefully resulting in information he could use.

"Sir," Toren began, the sharpness of his word carrying in the silence, "do you think..."

"Quiet," Mytho said, shushing him. He cupped his hand over his ears, listening intently through the raucous workers at the wall outside. The wooden floors creaked underneath his weight, a painful noise from a tired building if the long-weathered stones outside were any hint to its age. The potions around him popped and hummed. He steadied his own breath, focusing harder as he searched for any noise that would alert him to the alchemist's presence.

He took another step forward, Toren hovering behind him at an uncomfortably close distance. Still, no sounds aside from those he didn't care for.

"Do you think she called for the guards?" Toren whispered. "If she did, we're probably..."

Out of the corner of his eye, Mytho noticed a shimmer run across the floor. His heart lurched and fell into his stomach before he heard the twang, barely giving him enough time to grab Toren's daft head and bring it to the floor.

Mytho hit the ground, landing flat on his back just before a bottle shot across the room. The glass shattered on the wall, splattering green ooze in every direction upon impact. As it slithered down into a puddle on the floor, a hole opened in the wood, smoking and crackling as if a fire had eaten through.

Toren rolled over and pushed himself against the counter, shivering and looking at the acidic puddle, his eyes and mouth equally wide as his face paled. "T-that's..."

"Not something you'd like to get on you, aye," Mytho said as he sat up. "I told you to keep your eyes open, lad. You're lucky I was here this time, or you would've been the one being melted instead."

"Do you think she had other traps?"

"Maybe," he said, slowly standing up, looking around to check for anything else. "She's crafty, but I doubt she's the type that would make anything elaborate."

"What makes you say that?"

Mytho shrugged. "That was just a tripwire. Any fool that's ever been up to no before good can rig one up without any trouble. I'll give her credit, though. She managed to tie that one to a catapult and get it working the first time." He spun on his heel, looking behind the counter, his thumb extended to move Toren's attention. "Which, by the direction the bottle came from, it's likely over there somewhere."

Toren slowly stood up and leaned over the counter, his eyes squinted. "Ah, so it is," he said, his voice light in surprise. "Good eye, sir. How does that help us, though?"

Mytho took a few steps forward, his eyes tracing over the rainbow assortment of potions, over the wide variety alchemical supplies, and across the finer details, such as the arrangement of the furniture. "Let me ask you something, lad," he said. "If you were expecting a few unwanted guests, where would you go to wait for when they arrive?"

"I'd probably try to not be around," Toren said, hopping over the counter to get a better look at the bottle catapult.

"Aye, that's a sensible way of thinking," Mytho said as he reached the wall. He turned around and took in the view of the rest of the store, a straight-look to the door. A perfect position. "But if you were the crafty sort like our alchemist friend is, and you wanted to admire your devious handiwork, maybe be nearby to clean up what's left of your unwanted guests when they're a nice, hot liquid, you'd find yourself a hiding spot."

Toren pulled the catapult back and let it go, the swish of its arm loud in the room. "Er, I don't think I follow," he said, pulling the catapult back again, this time with a Septim loaded.

Mytho ran his finger along the wall behind him, feeling until he found a section of wood that went further in than the rest. He followed it around to its corner, and then to the next as he felt out a defined shape. On the left side, he found a dip, enough to wedge his finger into. "What I mean is that nobody sets a trap in their own home and leaves the mess for later. Imagine if someone friendly popped in for a visit. How would it look to have a soggy corpse lying on the floor?"

Toren launched the Septim across the room. It bounced into the smoldering hole in the wall, fell to the floor, and dissolved into the puddle of acid, forgotten entirely as he began to understand. "So, you think..."

"No, I don't _think_ these things, lad," Mytho said, taking a deep breath as he readied himself. "I know them."

Mytho gripped the wall and tore off the square panel. Before he could even reach inside the newly opened hole, an ear-splitting scream shattered the exhaustive quietness inside the apothecary. Suleh kicked at him, clearly not realizing all she was doing was giving him something to grab – her ankle, to be exact. With a merciless yank, Mytho dragged her out of her hiding spot and into the floor. She twisted and clawed at the ground, screaming Yokudan curses at him as she repeatedly smashed her heel on his forearm. The next time she kicked, he caught her other ankle, keeping both her legs in place.

In response, she screamed louder and twisted away from him at a painful-looking angle, trying to pull away.

"Sir, if she keeps making so much noise, someone will come to see what's happening!" Toren said, peeking out the window, a panicked look in his eye.

"I know that," Mytho said, looking around the room for anything to quiet her with. Nothing, not unless he wanted to try his hand at pouring potions in her mouth, hoping one wouldn't kill her. It was time for a time-tested approached, so he placed his foot in the middle of her back and pushed down, pinning her in place as he leaned over her.

"Get off me!" she shouted, gasping for air. "And get out of my house! Before I get nasty!"

"Not until you tell me where you're hiding the girl," Mytho said as he released her legs and dropped his knee onto her back. With one hand, he pushed her head down, keeping her still.

"I told you I don't know anything!" she said, her voice muffled as her face was pressed against the floor.

"Aye, that you did, but that's also a lie," he said, sighing as she squirmed defiantly under his grasp. "Listen to me. You seem like a nice woman, so I don't enjoy doing this, not even a little bit. Unfortunately, I've also got too much at stake and too little time to be nice. Tell me what I want to know, and I'll be on my way. I'll even have the boy here clean up the mess on the way out."

"You will _not!_ " Toren shouted, stamping his foot.

"You're both bastards!" Suleh snapped. "You can take your 'ayes' and your 'lasses' and shove them up your asses!"

Mytho rolled his eyes in his sockets. This was going nowhere, and she wasn't going to be charmed as she been earlier in the day, unsurprisingly. "Fine," he said, motioning to Toren. "I'll just take a look around and see what I can find."

Toren looked at him as he approached, then at her, and then aghast at the idea of holding her down. However, he sheepishly put his knee on the alchemist's back, mimicking how Mytho had pinned her down. With a hard look and a nod, Toren gave him the assurance to investigate the rest of the building.

He made for the stairs on the other side of the apothecary, ascending to the second floor as Suleh began to cry out once more. As he climbed higher, stepping out of the stairs and into the hallway above, her voice cracked, desperation tearing her previous defiance apart.

It was clear she had something to hide, and Mytho intended on finding it. He forced his way into the room at the top, which turned out to be a bedroom, lit in blue from the moons outside the window. Pages and books – recipes for different kinds of potions, as far as he could tell – were strewn about the room in what appeared to be a pitiful attempt at organization. Emptied bottles here and there rolled out of the way as he passed, heading toward the desk at the other side, right below the window. There, he pulled out the chair and sat down, browsing each paper stacked on the table. Most were what appeared to be the alchemist's diary, something he usually wouldn't have interest in, save for the sparse mentions of the girl, Ysadette, and her Mentor in the recent week's chronicling.

Mytho skimmed over every page, flipped through each book on the desk, quickly growing tired of seeing the goofy scribbles and unfocused ramblings of the woman downstairs. If he didn't know any better – if she hadn't nearly launched a bottle of acidic substances in his face – he would've thought her mad and nothing more. But just as he was about to cease his rummaging, having reached the bottom of the messy pile of notes, he found an unsealed letter at the bottom. As soon as he read the first few words on the page, he smirked and stood up from the desk.

Just as he expected, the girl wasn't a skilled fugitive. After leaving the Gray Forest as evidence in her wake, he wasn't the least bit surprised.

As he re-entered the lower room of the apothecary, Toren glanced up. "Please, tell me you found something, sir," he said. "I don't like doing this."

Mytho waved the letter at him and squatted in front of Suleh, meeting her hateful eyes with a final, unspoken plea for her to speak. When she didn't, instead only gritting her teeth and spitting another curse, he sighed and began to read the letter.

"To my dearest friend, Suleh," he said, pausing as he watched for her reaction.

The alchemist's eyes opened wide, her anger vanishing as fear took its place. "I-I thought I..." she muttered.

"Please, forgive me for not having written to you in quite some time now."

"Stop reading that!" Suleh said, tears forming in her eyes. "Put it down! You don't know what you're doing!"

"Unfortunately, recent events beyond my control have left me with no other choice but to flee Anvil – and possibly Cyrodiil – with my Mentor," he continued, ignoring her as she slurred more curses he couldn't understand. "If you remember, I told you of him, of his great power and knowledge, and of his seemingly incurable mental affliction in one of my previous letters. In the coming days, the two of us will arrive in Chorrol, where I hope to rest before departing for the Imperial City. Once there, I plan to visit the archives at the Arcane University in hopes of discovering a means of returning his sanity. I look forward to seeing you again, and I hope our presence will not be a burden on you and Isro."

Mytho folded the letter and held it against his knee, looking Suleh dead in the eyes as her face contorted in misery and shame. "With love, Ysa."

"She never did anything to you," Suleh said, visibly fighting to keep from sobbing. "To any of you."

"That's where you're wrong, lass," he said, putting the letter in his coat as he stood up. "And she isn't the only one who pissed off the wrong man. I did, too, and I'm afraid if I've got a choice on who lives and dies because of it, I'll choose someone besides myself every time."

"You're awful," Suleh said, her bloodshot eyes and her tear-streaked cheeks condemning him in a uniquely vicious way. "You don't even know what she's been through, do you?"

"I don't need to know," Mytho said, stepping over her and towards the door. As he crossed the room, walking backward, he turned gestured at Toren to ready himself. "And, seeing as you were so kind as to leave her letter lying around instead of tossing into a fire, I don't need you to tell me, either. Now, if you don't mind, my associate and I will…"

The sound of the door opening behind Mytho forced his hands to his swords, unsheathing them instinctually.

Almost free, but not quite.

A young man – a Redguard bearing a vague resemblance to the alchemist – stood in the doorway, dressed in the armor of Chorrol's guards. His sword was already drawn, both hands gripping the hilt as he carefully entered the apothecary. "What did you do to my sister?" he growled.

"Only kept her from doing something we'd all regret," Mytho said, twirling one of his swords around as he began to close the gap between himself and the guard. It was a straight path to him, no room to maneuver into a position, but he could already see the weakness in the boy's stance. He was on the side of the law, wore their colors like they were his own, but that couldn't hide the inexperience in his steps. "Now, lad, I encourage you to think about what you're going to do next. My aim isn't to kill anyone tonight, but I won't hesitate to cut you down if you get in my way."

"Isro!" Suleh shouted, fighting against Toren's grip. "They're after Ysa!"

The guard, Isro, glanced at his sister, then his eyes hardened as he looked at Mytho. "Who are you working for?"

"The liveliest dead-man I've ever had the misfortune of meeting, that's who," Mytho said.

"Is this a joke to you?" Isro snapped, sounding offended.

"If you only knew what I had at stake, you'd know how dumb of a question that is. No, I'm serious. Now, move aside before I force you out of the way."

Isro spaced his feet apart and squared his shoulders. "I'm not going anywhere, and you're not leaving this room."

Mytho sighed, looking him up and down. The boy had conviction, something he could've respected under any other circumstance, but tonight, it was nothing more than a desperate attempt at clinging to dignity before death. "Come on, then," Mytho said, preparing himself. "Don't keep me waiting, I've got a long night of riding ahead of me."

Isro rushed forward, his sword swinging up as he came within range. A simple attempt to harm him, one of the first sorts Mytho learned and understood how to avoid. He slipped out of the way and dropped low, one leg stuck out, his foot sliding across the floor until he slammed against Isro's ankle. Before Isro had time to realize he was off-balance, Mytho launched up and rammed his shoulder into the boy's chest, knocking him out the door and into the street.

"Isro!" Suleh screamed, flailing about, kicking at Toren in whatever angle she could manage. "Please! Don't kill him!"

Mytho slipped outside, his steps careful and quick as he advanced on Isro. The next attempt that Isro made was as valiant as the last, but no closer to being lethal. In the open street, it was far easier to avoid. Mytho swept around him, tracing a small cut – a warning – along Isro's leg as he passed. "Listen to your sister," he said, raising up again. "This isn't worth your life. All you've got to do is drop that sword, go inside, and forget everything you saw here tonight. I won't come back, you have my word."

Isro stumbled, his pant leg staining from the fresh wound he had been given, and returned to his attacking stance once more. He inhaled through his nose, his face grew deadly serious, and he charged.

Of course, he wouldn't give in. The precious few people Mytho had met that fancied themselves heroes never did know when they were outmatched, not until they were face to face with the gods, he imagined. With barely a thought, he swirled out the way. The tip of Isro's sword fell next to him a second later, smashing on the stone street. With a leap and a spin, Mytho kicked him, knocking him flat on his back.

"Hey!" Toren shouted from inside the apothecary, almost breaking Mytho's focus. "Sir! Watch out!"

There wasn't any more time to waste, not out in full view of anyone who might happen to pass by. Mytho placed his foot on Isro's shoulder, holding him down, and pulled his arm back, the tip of his sword pointed straight at guard's heart. "It's a shame," he said, tightening his grip so he wouldn't slip when he punched through the padding of the uniform. "You've left me with no other choice."

Isro was a brave sort, Mytho realized. Even staring down a sword that was going to be his end, he didn't show the slightest hint of fear. Mytho bit on his tongue and prepared to bring the short scuffle to a decisive end, when he heard the pattering of feet on stone approach.

Just as he began to move, Suleh threw herself onto Isro. With the same ill-placed courage they shared, she glared up at Mytho, refusing to move despite surely knowing it would cost her life, and likely Isro's as well.

She said nothing, didn't whimper or beg, but it was the look in her eyes as she cradled Isro's head that locked Mytho's arms before he could harm either of them any further. With his sword less than a second away from piercing Suleh's back, he found himself unable to complete the motion.

Why?

It was all for Aressia, he had told himself in every instance of doubt. For her and for Halora, too, he would be as cruel as the situation demanded. And yet as he watched both siblings take their turn risking their lives for one another, a fresh terror raised in his mind, one he couldn't stifle with ignorance and couldn't reason away.

Damn them. It wasn't supposed to be this complicated, it never was.

He lowered his sword, and with a spin, returned it to its sheath, the other following after as he stepped back from the two. A piece of him said it was a sin to stop now, and the other said it was a far worse one to continue on. He knew which one he would've listened to before, but why he couldn't now, Mytho wasn't sure.

Toren stumbled out of the apothecary, stopping long enough to rest a hand on the archway before stepping into the street. "I'm sorry, sir!" he said as he approached. "She got the better of me! I..."

"Enough," Mytho said, now finding it impossible to meet Suleh's unflinching contempt. "We're done here. We have what we need, so let's leave before things take another unfortunate turn."

"And the two of them?" Toren asked.

"I said we're leaving, didn't I?" Mytho grumbled as he walked away. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Suleh raising up, likely confused as he was about what he was doing. To keep from having to question it, he walked faster, hoping he wasn't about to turn around and see either of them coming after him. "They aren't a threat to us, and I don't want to make a mess when it isn't necessary. Understand?"

There wasn't a sound behind him as he walked, not for a long enough span he began to wonder if Toren was going to come with him at all.

"You're not going to find her," Suleh called out, causing him to stop and listen.

"And even if you do," Isro said, carrying on with a sentiment they likely both shared, "she's not going to go quietly. You can count on that."

Mytho glanced over his shoulder as Toren ran to catch up. "I wouldn't expect anything less from the Lady-In-Flames," he said, walking onward to keep from thinking about either of them any longer than he already had.

He wasn't running away, it was mercy. That's what Mytho told himself as he pushed on, heading towards the city gates, and to where he and Toren's horses were waiting. As Mytho settled into Empress's saddle and rode away from Chorrol, however, he couldn't help but wonder why he had suddenly found such a dangerous inclination within himself. Thinking only of the road ahead, of its perils, and of Aressia and Halora, he knew that mercy was a liability he couldn't afford to let live.

He swore that next time, he wouldn't make the same mistake. The girl and her Mentor, wherever they were, would be the keys to unlock his chains. They would return his freedom once again.

 _Just a little longer, Aressia, Hallie,_ he thought, spurring Empress to ride faster into the night. _I promise both of you, I'll make things right_ _._


	30. Where the Clouds Gather

30

.~~~.

Ysadette sat cross-legged on the stump. Her eyes shut tight, she tried to envision the Daedric rune inscribing itself on the ground in front of her. First, it was a small crackling she heard, barely discernible through the songbirds chirping away in the treetops. The insects chattering in the grassy clearing, too. But soon, the sound was joined by a smoky scent, as if a roaring campfire had flicked to life. It grew as she channeled her magicka into the rune. Sneakily, she opened one eye, and before shutting it again, spied the orange glow of the outer ring as it formed. Another round of deep breathing through the smoky air, another half-minute of waiting, and she knew that the inner ring had formed as well.

Ysa opened her eyes and stood up, peering down at the vigorously shining rune.

Perfect. She hopped off the stump and crouched behind it, smoothing the grass with her palm until she found a pebble to take.

Ulpo grabbed onto her from behind, his chin set on her shoulder, wide-eyed excitement brimming on his face. "D'oh, go ahead, girl!"

"Erm, you _are_ sure this is a safe distance, aren't you, Mentor?"

"Of course!" he said, tapping her shoulders rhythmically. Then, his brow furrowed. "D'oh, I think so."

"I supposed I haven't any choice, then, do I?" she said, sighing. Hunkering down even lower for good measure, so low she couldn't see over the stump, Ysadette took a deep breath to brace herself, and tossed the stone into the air. It arched high, falling languidly and without any idea of what was coming. Assuming her fire rune had been properly cast, that is.

But the stone rolled harmlessly into the tall grass, coming to rest somewhere just out of sight.

As she peeked over the stump, her face was already hot with frustration. "Oh, phooey!" she said, pushing her fist into the ground. "I thought I had it this..."

A sweltering fireball exploded outward, a concurrent boom resonating in the air. The force of the blast threw Ysadette onto her back, Ulpo being caught underneath with a squeal. Dirt and stone launched in all directions, the other side of the stump burned and reduced to splinters. As she rolled off her Mentor and into the grass, flecks of wood and stone rained down from above.

For a moment, she remained on the ground, the ringing in her ears excruciating. Slowly, and with the taste of dirt on her tongue, Ysadette sat up and began to pick the debris from her hair. There on the ground where the rune had been was a smoldering crater – a testament to her irrefutable success.

"D'oh! Very good, girl!" Ulpo said, clapping his hands as he leaped to his feet. "Very good, indeed! Why, it seems like just yesterday you were having trouble casting a simple spout of flames, d'oh, yes!" Possessed by what seemed to be unheard music, Ulpo leaped to his feet and began to dance, swishing his rear back and forth as he bounced across the clearing, evidently more excited than she was.

As Ysadette watched him, she could only sit and wish she shared that excitement. It wasn't as if she took no pride in her accomplishment. Instead, it was because it had taken so long to reach what was still a delayed rune. Functional, but not perfect as it needed to be. It had taken her nearly a month, and it was a month of sparse successes and more failures than she had cared to count. As she slumped down on what was left of the stump, her thoughts drifted back to the night she had fled Anvil, Ulpo and Andard in tow. Of what she had done to keep them safe.

How close had she been to not being able to say that? Morar was only the second mage in her life she had crossed, and with what seemed to be little effort, he showed her how much she had yet to learn. Both his skill in every spell he had cast and his prompt dismissal of hers save the last had left Ysadette feeling like she scarcely escaped a hungry bear.

Ysa twisted her fingers together, pushing them into a tangled mess as she replayed every second of the fight once more. Every night, just as she was about to slip into what she had come to call rest, she heard it again. The snapping of lightning around her, causing her hair to stand on end as it cooked the nighttime air. Morar's jeers as he reveled in her desperation. The last neighs of her horse dying on the roadside.

Andard's tortured shrieking as he threw himself in harm's way for her sake. As she failed to keep him safe. That haunting sound, the mere thought of it had been enough to force her to curl into a shuddering ball the first few nights. It had made her miss entirely the sleep she needed, and long for the next night even more fiercely. She should've been stronger. She should've been better. But she wasn't, and it almost cost Andard his life.

Perhaps she had survived, but it didn't feel as if she had won. With a few waves of his hand, Morar had dashed her pride to pieces. She knew now that every moment spent resting and not improving was a moment that someone could skulk up the campsite and…

Ysa forced out the shallow breath simmering in her chest and tried to think of anything else. Anything at all. Whatever it took, she wouldn't let the same thing happen again. Never. She'd rather die than be made helpless.

A thick patch of bushes behind Ysadette stirred, making her shoot to her feet, spells in hand and ready to fire before she could discern the face that appeared.

Andard brushed his hair back with one hand and looked her with a raised eyebrow. "Ah, should I come back later?" he asked, glancing at her hands.

Ysa smothered the embers in her palms and shook her head. "No, I apologize for being so jumpy," she said, forcing a smile, hoping that it didn't look as fake as it felt. "What is it?"

Andard stepped out of the bushes, dusting his hands on his trousers as he approached. As he walked, he looked over to the crater and made a peculiar expression, huffing something less than a chuckle. "Well, if you aren't busy with anything..."

Ysa looked back at the campsite, at Ulpo, who was still dancing about in circles, oblivious to the world around him. When he neared his tent, he dove inside, disappearing behind the flaps. A moment later, his rumbling snore filled the air.

 _So much for another lesson_ , she thought, turning back to Andard. "I had planned on doing other things, but I believe I can work you in for...er," she paused and rolled her eyes back and forth, leaning with them. "A minute or so."

"Then I'm in luck, it seems," Andard said, strutting over to the bushes to hold them back. Bowing like a proper gentleman despite lacking a shirt, being covered in dirt and scrapes, neither his hair nor the scruffy beard he had been growing having been brushed in a day, he motioned for her to follow. "This will only take a minute or so. If we move quickly, that is."

Ysadette looked at the campsite another time, her fingers already twitching, wanting to engage in another anxious fight with each other. She needed to keep studying, learning more spells, and refining the ones she already knew.

If anyone found them, it wouldn't be…

"Please, Detta," Andard said in a falsely whining tone as he tugged at her hand. "You've been spending so much time on your lessons, I barely have you all to myself anymore. It'll be for just a little bit, and I'll let you get back to being a bookworm, I promise."

It wasn't like Andard to be so pushy, Ysa thought, so it must've been important. Perhaps she could take a few minutes to clear her head. Just a few, and then she would make up the lost time with double the lessons if Ulpo were feeling up to the task. "What do you mean, 'barely?'" she asked, hopping through the gap between the bushes. "You usually have me to yourself all night, don't you?"

"Well, yes," he said, allowing the twigs and branches to swing back as he followed after her. "However, if my memory serves me correctly, the one being the most vocal is you, and none of what's being said is the sort of thing that needs repeating."

Ysa clamped her mouth shut, her face flushing hotly. "Er, you don't suppose Ulpo understands Bretic, do you?"

"Gods, I hope not," Andard said, nudging her with his shoulder. "For your sake, that is. Now, come on, let's hurry before he wakes up and starts doing...whatever it is he's going to do next. I think you're going to like what I've done."

He took her by the hand, and although he tried to keep himself from looking straight at her, Ysadette could see the edge of his lips turning up into a smile. He was up to something, that much she could tell. Andard had always worn his thoughts plainly on his face, so it had to be purposeful that he avoided her attempts at drawing his direct attention. As he led her through the woods, underneath the shady trees, and through the warm sunlight peeking between the leaves, Ysa couldn't think of his poorly hidden grin. She could only stare and recoil at the burn mark on his cheek and the scar on his shoulder.

Remnants of her failures, unfairly worn on his skin and not on hers. Not once had he spoken to her about what happened that night. It was his silence toward the topic, though, that kept the wounds fresh in her heart. Perhaps he avoided it because, like her, he knew there was only one truth and only one person to blame. Instead, as time passed, bringing them into the blistering month of Last Seed, Andard pretended as if they were simply a grand adventure. It was witty gallantry and not desperate fleeing for their lives. It was another one of his "expeditions," not spending their days surviving off the land instead of turning – day by day – the perfect fantasy they both shared into reality.

And it was a mystery why he hadn't up and left her in the woods with Ulpo. She surely deserved that much. Probably worse.

After leisurely strolling through the woods, him humming a tune and with a bounce in his step, the scent of the pond a short way from their camp began to thicken. The sounds of the waves gently lapping on the shore and the rushing river on the other end combined to sing along with the birds in the trees as they drew nearer. It reminded Ysadette of the docks in Anvil and of the mornings she spent on the beach, watching the sunrise before she was needed at the Chapel of Dibella.

But today, it wasn't only a rocky shore and misty waters that awaited her. Ysadette took note of the new object idling on the water's edge. Atop it was a stitched together cover of leaves and branches, clearly made by Andard himself as he guided her towards it.

"Is this what you brought me down here for?" Ysa asked as he let go of her hand.

"In part, yes," Andard said. He paused for a moment to glance at her, and with a widened grin, he yanked the cover off. With his arms spread wide, he stepped back, presenting with a flair of showmanship an amalgamation of even more branches and twine. "So, what do you think?"

Ysa approached his peculiar creation, realizing what it was only after she watched him climb into it. "You built a boat?"

"Looks good, doesn't it?" he said, his chest puffed out proudly. "It took me a few attempts to get things just right, but I figured it out."

"And the other attempts?" she asked. "Where are they?"

"Firewood, my dear Detta." Andard leaped out of the boat again. "And the ashes scattered. If I couldn't see her sail, her parts could at least give us a fire to cook our food with once they dried."

"It's wonderful," she said, leaning back on her heels, stealing a glance over her shoulder in the direction of the camp. "Really, I had no idea you were so resourceful."

When Ysadette turned back to him, she found that his head was bowed, one hand extended to her.

"Madam," he said in a stuffy tone. "If you would be so kind as to accompany me on the maiden voyage of the..." He paused and rolled his jaw around in circles. " _The Golden Queen_ , I would be honored beyond measure."

Ysadette looked toward the camp again, then to Andard's patiently – soon to be _impatiently_ – waiting hand.

A few minutes surely couldn't hurt. "I suppose I can't deny such a cordial offer," she said, sighing as she stepped into the boat. She went to the front and sat down, her back turned to him. "But please, stop it with that act. You sound like an oaf."

Andard laughed before getting behind the boat to push. With a few grunts and a few false starts, he found his footing, and _The Golden Queen_ set sail into the murky waters of their private pond. To hasten their gentle journey, Andard took the oars and began to row. Tiny dragonflies buzzed around them as they drifted further away from the shore, and Ysa watched as fish swam beneath the surface, curious of this disruptive new occupant in their home. She figured she was confused, too.

"Ah, that pond smell never gets old, does it?" Andard said, inhaling loudly through his nose. "You know, I actually prefer it more than I did the ocean smell on the docks back home. Not quite as pungent, and it's much quieter."

"Uh-huh," Ysa said.

"It's a great fishing spot, too. Back on the beach in Anvil, all I could ever catch were those damned mudcrabs."

"Mm-hm."

"And you know that I love boiled mudcrab legs as much as anyone else, especially when you're doing the cooking, but the taste does get old after a while."

"If you say so."

It was in the stretching period of silence that followed her short responses when Ysa knew Andard was becoming frustrated. But what else could she do?

"You know, Detta," he said, rowing a bit harder than before, "unless you happen to know personally the Fool's troupe of imaginary friends, it takes two to make conversation."

"I know it does," she said, sighing until she felt she had no air left in her lungs. "But I can't..."

Andard waited a few moments, even stopping his rowing to listen to her. "You can't what?"

"Nothing. I'm fine." Ysa glanced over her shoulder, expecting him to start rowing again. Instead, she was met with a rare sight – a skeptical look in his passive eyes. "You can stop gawking at me like that. I told you that I'm fine and I meant it."

"Detta, there isn't anyone else out here to talk to."

"So?"

"So, I want to talk to you," he said, the sound of his shrug louder than it reasonably should've been. "And I want you to talk to me. Otherwise, you'll soon have two madmen to deal with instead of one."

Ysadette wished she could stand up and walk away, but the unfortunate fact that she had nowhere to go other than into the water kept her from trying. She should've known he planned to trap her, and she shouldn't have played right into it. "Be honest with me, then. You don't blame me for what happened, do you? For ruining both our lives?"

Silence. She dreaded it but wasn't surprised.

"If I hadn't taken Ulpo in, we could still be living in Anvil," she continued, finding the urge to slouch and retreat too much to ignore. "You could be in your shop right now. You could be working off that debt you got yourself in. I could be in the Chapel. The city wouldn't be missing one healer, and neither of us would be out in the middle of nowhere, spending every day trying to hide and survive." As Ysadette continued, she could hear the pathetic shudder in her voice, growing as she forced herself through each word. In his persistence silence, the sound of his pained cries from that night occupied her thoughts, a chill racing up and down her spine. She pulled at her collar and wiped the scant tears gathering on her eyes before they could fall.

"And you wouldn't have nearly been killed that night. You wouldn't have had to kill that guardsman, either. And I…"

The boat rocked as Andard shuffled closer to her. He didn't stop until he was so close she thought she could feel his breath.

If anything, she would've preferred he get up and leave her there in the middle of the pond, alone. She deserved it and far, far worse. Every death that happened that night, every wound on them both, was because of her actions.

"I'm sorry," Ysa whispered, fearing that if she spoke louder, she wouldn't be able to speak at all. "I suppose I really made a mess of things, didn't I?"

He pulled her into his arms before she could say anything else, his closeness making the pain of failure worse. Andard, though, in a strange sort of serenity, set his chin on her shoulder. After a long exhale, he kissed her on the neck. "Want to get married?" he asked, his tone so casual it was as if he were asking her what she wanted for dinner that night.

Ysa gasped and elbowed her way out of his embrace. She backed herself against the front of the boat, frozen in shock. "What did you just say?"

Andard, wearing a mischievous grin, shrugged at her. "I asked you to marry me," he said. "I've been scheming how to get you to the right place, but I keep having my plans ruined by chance. I planned to ask you at the cove that day the Fool nearly rattled the city apart, but you ran off before I could say anything. I had it all set up, too! After that plan fell through, I was at a loss of what to do. Especially after we had to leave home. I suppose I started feeling impatient, so I decided to try again out here. Before anything else goes awry."

"But all of this," Ysa said, gesturing widely with her arms, "it's all my fault! I've ruined everything! The only reason we're out here in the first place is because of me! You have every right to be angry with me, so why aren't you?"

"That's where you're wrong," he said, jabbing his finger at her. "I knew what I was getting into when I chose to come along with you. If I'm going to be angry with anyone, it definitely wouldn't be you."

"I want you to be honest with me! Stop treating me like a child and just tell me that you're angry!"

"I am being honest," he said, moving closer to her. "I'd be lying if I said I wasn't frustrated about what's happened, but I'm trying to think of the positive things in our new lives."

"Like what?"

Andard sat back, smiling. "I can share things like today with you. You know, about two years ago when I was on my way home from scavenging a shipwreck not too far from Anvil, I realized something. Adventuring by yourself isn't what some would have you believe. You get to see so many beautiful sights by yourself, yes, but that's just the problem. Only _you_ get to see them. You can't share those moments with anybody, but you still have to suffer through the worst of it by your lonesome. I suppose from then on, I started seeing it for what it was. It's lonely, it's a bit unnerving, and you have no one to count on besides yourself when things don't go as planned. From the right perspective, that's how life itself is, too, isn't it?"

"And out of every woman on Nirn – perhaps _Oblivion_ , too – your first choice is me?"

"Why wouldn't you be?" he said, his face looking nearly as puzzled as she felt at the returned question. "I'd be a madman to rival your Mentor if I let you get away."

As if her mind needed another reason to reel. Ysa sputtered instead of speaking, every word falling from her lips in the least graceful manner possible. She could compile a list of reasons why what he was proposing was an awful idea. She'd go as far as to circle the important ones for him, but the expression he was wearing – that damnable, oafish grin – told her that he'd look at it as if it were a blank sheet of paper. Instead, she did the next thing that came to her mind.

First, she stood up. A good start, she thought, as her quaking legs made the action difficult.

"Detta, what's the matter?" Andard asked. "Do you see something?"

Next, she placed her foot on the edge of the boat and looked deeply into the water, at her puffy-faced, red-splotched reflection. With that image in mind, she took a deep breath. They weren't far from shore. It would only take a moment. Then she could…

Well, she would figure that out later.

"Detta!" he shouted, grabbing the back of her shirt the very second she moved.

Her leap having been thrown off-balance by his intervention, Ysadette flopped into the water face first, flailing her arms around as the chilly water swallowed her whole. A sharp current pulling down swirled right beside her, bubbles brushing against her skin as they raced upward. Before she could think to follow their lead, an arm wrapped around her, yanking her toward the refracted sunlight above. As she broke through to the open air, coughing out the mouthful of water she had accidentally taken in, she went limp in Andard's grasp as he paddled toward the shore.

As she watched behind, Ysadette saw _The Golden Queen_ overturned, drifting woefully down until the mists and water overtook her. Her maiden voyage had ended in tragedy.

Andard, however, swam onward in persistent silence, finally hauling Ysadette out of the water and onto the sandy bank. His breath ragged, he loosened his grip and set her aside as he sank to his knees. For a few moments more, he focused only on controlling his breathing, coughing into his shoulder until he seemed to find composure. Letting out a quiet groan, he rolled over and laid flat on the ground to stare up at the sky.

Ysa brought her knees up to her chest and buried her face. _Utterly brilliant_ , she thought. _Now what have you done?_

"Er," Andard said, the suddenness of his voice startling her. "Forgive me for being at a bit of a loss, but what sort of answer should I take that as?"

Slowly, Ysa uncovered her face and looked over her shoulder at him. He was still flat on his back, but his head was raised and his soaked hair pushed back so she could see his eyes. It was the simple, almost casual disregard for nearly every terrible thing she had put him through she saw in them, not condemnation. The same oafish determination always brimming, he cracked a smile at her.

What sort of answer did she _mean_ for that to be taken as? She thought perhaps she would swim back to shore, and that would be the end of that conversation. But now that she sent _The Golden Queen_ to the depths, soaked them both, and left herself stuck on the shore with nowhere else to run beside through the woods, Ysa didn't know what else to say. There probably wasn't much else, she guessed, so she joined him in lying on the shore. Around them, the soothing forest sounds played, focusing her on the sound of her own heartbeat as it quickened.

 _From the right perspective_. Perhaps that was all she needed to find the right words. Maybe they were all that mattered. She couldn't have imagined their life as it was now, but it was real. And it was theirs, so long as she decided to share it. As if he knew already, Andard took her hand, his eyes darting away for a fleeting moment, then back with palpable courage.

She drew nearer to press her lips against his, drifting back again so she could say the only thing she was sure of. "I love you. I really, really do."

"How beautifully put," he said, his grin tranquil. "Then, is that a yes?"

"Yes," she said, returning his smile with one of her own as best as she was able, this time not forcing a fake. "That's a yes."

"Well, I suppose we ought to make it official, shouldn't we?" he said, thrusting the hand opposite of her into his trouser pocket. Wriggling back and forth, his tongue stuck out between his teeth, he continued searching until he found his surprise. He thrust his arm skyward, letting something fall and dangle above them both.

Glistening in the sunlight, a deeper blue than the sky itself, was a sapphire hanging from a silver chain. Ysadette sat up and reached out to take it, first bumping it with her fingertips before he pushed it into her palms. "It's so pretty, but where did you..."

"You don't remember?" Andard said, folding his hands behind his head, his smirk turned cocky. "I'd never spend that much coin on something I didn't think was worth it."

Ysa cupped the necklace in her hands, rubbing the stone with her thumb as it shined cheerily at her. "Then, the debt you owed to Lady Aressia…"

Andard's smile vanished and he sat up stiffly. "Er, let's not worry about that right now."

"Oh, you really are determined to get me into trouble one of these days, aren't you?" Ysa said, stifling a small laugh. "Fine, I suppose we can't become any worse criminals than we already are, now can we?"

"No, my dear," he said, putting his arm around her, "we likely can't. And besides, you're better at finding trouble that I am."

"But if we ever have the chance..."

"I know, I know, we'll make things right," he said, squeezing her shoulder. "I swear on my great grandmother's grave. Now, go on already."

Ysa smirked at him as she looked at the necklace one more time before fastening it around her neck. The feeling would certainly take some getting used to, but the coolness of the stone against her skin was strangely comforting.

As if a piece of him was right there with her, holding her close, no matter what.

.~~~.

Ysadette inhaled until her lungs were at their fullest, then exhaled. She slowly loosened her grip on her necklace and the tension pent up in her muscles with it. Still feeling the needling of worry in her chest, she repeated the action. Again, and once more after that, she found a small amount of solace in the back of the cart. The incessant neighing of the horse, Chunkyhoof, and the ensuing, irritated curses from the driver, Barro, had become oddly soothing on the journey, although only due to familiarity. They were two of the trio of lives that kept her mind sharp during the long hours spent watching their surroundings with her magically enhanced vision. Between the bumps in the road, she eased back into the seat of the rickety cart, the wood hard, yet offering some vague sense of comfort.

Yet an almost perpetual adrenaline rush kept her heart from being calm. So long as they were on the road, Ysadette knew that it would be a mistake to lower her guard. Last time she had allowed herself a moment of rest, allowed herself to hesitate in a moment that demanded action, three innocent lives we lost.

She would not – and _could_ not – allow anything of the sort to happen again. She couldn't bear to have more blood on her hands.

Across from her, tucked into the corner of the cart with his back facing her, her cloak draped over his spindly form, Ulpo was fast asleep. Rather, he had fallen snugly into his fitful cycles of muttering and giggling at what were likely dreams too disjointed to understand for anyone with even a sliver of sanity left. In the past, she would've tried to move him to a more comfortable position, or one she considered safer, and kept him as close to her side as possible.

Now? She had almost come to crave the meager distance between them, the guilt she felt at that admission be damned. This way, he was calm. Quiet. After having encountered the other Ulpo – the one with an otherworldly scowl carved into his stone-gray face – on the cart the night they had left Chorrol, she had begun to find his closeness smothering. With that memory followed the gradual rise of dread within her, heavy and cold, as ever. This time, though, she knew from what corner of her exhausted mind it has slithered out from.

" _After what you've been through because of me,"_ Ulpo had said that night as they stood on the hill, flashes of lightning splitting the clouds above. _"You deserve to know what's been happening."_

Ysadette had allowed the words to repeat in her head since the moment Ulpo relapsed into his mad self, forcing her to return to the impatiently waiting Barro. Then she would listen to the entire conversation that followed his begrudging acknowledgment of her pain, the chill racing up her spine and the turning of her stomach never fading. She still had more questions, of course. She didn't imagine Ulpo would tell her everything, whether he had the time to or not.

Which he hadn't.

He had only been given a short time to speak candidly with her. Then his demeanor again became that of a man whose mind had long succumbed to severely advanced age and its trappings. What he told her, though, was far more than enough to go on. It was enough for her to fashion a sure path going forward, something she had begun to believe she wouldn't have the luxury of. Even with time enough behind them to do so, the details hadn't become muddy. They had crystallized beyond what she considered comfortable, giving her time to wallow in the horrors he had revealed.

Somehow, with scarcely more than a handful of honest sentences exchanged between them, she had grown to fear the other Ulpo. They had spoken for nearly half an hour, him giving her whatever information he deemed "necessary," but not a word further. Otherwise, he would snap at her and demand she stop wasting time. Several of the answers she had longed for, risked her _life_ for,had been given to her. And yet they hadn't set her at ease, hadn't given her the pride of a mystery unraveled.

They had left her terrified. Terrified of him. Her Mentor, her Grandfather, or whoever he truly was deep inside, and what lurked just beneath his madness.

No, she feared the cause of it, and that her suspicions about his affliction had been confirmed. She feared the Game that she had been made an unwilling pawn in, the same one Peryite had warned her of.

" _Should you find success,"_ Peryite had said, wearing the rat-body for their entire conversation, _"are you prepared to_ _f_ _ace the consequences of what you've do_ _n_ _e to reach it? What of the little you still hold dear are you willing to sacrifice?"_

At the time, Ysadette had known he was playing with her. Or goading her into making a move she didn't want to make. Daedric Princes have always have been fond of theatrics and testing their wit, she had learned. Sometimes with other Princes, even. Only now did she understand that every word he had spoken, every second he spent entertaining her before lifting the curse, he had spent it trying to warn her. She was sure of that now.

But still, of what exactly was he warning her? What did he know that she didn't?

" _I don't mean to find fault with you,"_ Suleh had said that day they arrived in Chorrol, _"but have you ever wondered if what you're doing is best for him?"_

Suleh had been right to worry, Ysa decided, trying in vain to chase out the tension rebuilding in her shoulders. Knowing what she did now, knowing the rules that she must play by or risk a complete loss, what option was there that could be considered "best" anymore? Rather, was there even one she could consider good? And if she found victory, what would it cost?

What would it cost Ulpo?

" _You know better than I do that there are dangerous things out there,"_ Andard had warned all that time ago. " _I wouldn't want you getting wrapped up in a mess you aren't able to run from."_

Ysadette's hands grew cold and her palms began to sweat as fear crawled at a lumbering pace through her veins, urging her to take hold of her necklace again. She didn't have a choice in the matter anymore, but with the knowledge of Ulpo's affliction gained earlier than expected, she now had another mystery to solve, that of the cure. Only this one was far more daunting than the first.

This one, unlike the first, seemed nigh-unsolvable. Despite the warning she had been given, for all her efforts to avoid the worst, Ysadette knew that she was caught up in an unjust Game too complex and too great for her alone to win.

And yet, she was alone.

"Excuse me, miss?" Barro called out from the front of the cart before shushing Chunkyhoof and bringing the slow, plodding pace to a halt. "We're coming up on the city! You've never seen it before, have you?"

He paused for a moment, awaiting an answer to a question he'd already asked her more than twice before.

"Come on up here, if you want!" he continued. "This is the best view of the place you're gonna get!"

Ysa let go of her necklace and gripped the seat of the cart A moment of respite, given to her by what had become the source of her irritation for most of the trip. _Breathe,_ she thought, following her own advice as she began to climb through the cart, careful not to disturb her fragile peace with any further pessimism. _There's still time._ _There's still a way_ _to win_ _, as long as I'm alive._

There was still the Arcane University, and the sooner she arrived in the Imperial City, the sooner she would find what she needed.

Ysadette stepped lightly over the wall dividing the front seat from the back and dropped down next to Barro. He sneaked a glance at her, she noticed, and his expression was nothing short of pleased. "Well, miss," he said, tugging at the reins, puffing out his chest, "it's been a long, slow ride, but we're finally here. Welcome to the Imperial City."

Barro continued to speak, but his words faded, barely registering in her ears as Ysadette found herself enraptured by the view from the crest of the hill. Below, sitting deep in the middle of the Nibenay Valley, awaited far more than she had imagined the city to be for her entire life. Lake Rumare – reflected orange and yellow in the sun – was dotted by departing ships heading south. Still more ships, enough to fill an armada or maybe more, bobbed in the harbor, a crescent enclosing them in a manner vaguely reminiscent of the comparatively little port in Anvil.

At the bottom of the hill, a twisting flow of travelers – some in well-furnished carts only suitable for nobles, others on loaded-down horseback, and even more of the destitute variety on foot – were traveling straight on, across the Talos Bridge. Their combined presence had a rumbling like thunder. Ysadette had never seen such a massive bridge, and she marveled at it, at the statue of Saint Caelum looming over the midway point. She imagined it would take longer to cross over than it would if she walked from one end of Anvil to the other. And still, more visitors to the city were arriving, coming from the east and west, converging at the town at the mouth of the bridge and joining the sea of uncountable, eager masses. Yet, for all its splendor, the Talos Bridge was but a humble sight compared to what awaited on the other end.

Sitting on the island in the middle of Lake Rumare, more grand and ethereal than Ysadette could've ever dreamed, a monument to the world by virtue of its majesty, was the Imperial City, the beating heart of the Empire itself. Its pearlescent walls stretched as far and wide as she could see, almost as if they aimed to encompass the world itself, gather the furthest corners under the banner of the Empire. Like arms reaching to the heavens, and to the Divines in their lofty places, spires climbed up from the city. Yet all paled in comparison to the greatest of the towers – the White-Gold Tower standing in the center of the Imperial City. Even squinting, she was only barely able to see the tip, the sun cradled on its apex.

Somehow, even at such an incredible distance, she could sense the magic within the White-Gold Tower. Swirling. Pulsing. It wasn't like the magicka in the air, and she knew it wouldn't bend to her will no matter how hard she tried. It was ferocious. It was boundless, infinite in depth, and far beyond her own comprehension, perhaps beyond anybody's. And still, like tiny pins it probed at her fingertips, daring her to draw from it. Like an old friend that she couldn't quite recall the name of, it tugged at what felt like her very soul, begging her to stop and listen to their voice.

Remember.

Had every mage that came to the city felt this? Is this why the Arcane University had sprung up here and nowhere else? After taking in the sight of the Tower encircled, the hundreds of faces and lives clamoring at the as they passed underneath the shadows of the Imperial City, the sinking feeling in Ysa's chest let her know she couldn't have been further from home.

This place was nothing like Anvil. The kindly people that knew her name and her face, trusted her to knit their wounds, and even those that avoided her presence were like foggy memories of a past life. It was a different world altogether she had been coldly shoved into, and one without direction.

"Er, ma'am?" Barro said, one hand settled on Ysadette's shoulder as if keeping her steady. "Are you feeling sick? You're lookin' a bit paler than usual."

"No, I'm..." She shook her head. "I'm feeling a bit overwhelmed, actually. There is so much to take in. I'm afraid I don't even know where to begin."

For a moment longer, they rode quietly, the clopping of Chunkyhoof like a ticking clock.

"That'll be up to you, I suppose," Barro said, shrugging. "We've, uh still got a bit of riding left before I let you off. Take a few minutes while we're out of the way, think about where you're headed before we get there."

"You come to the city often. Do you have suggestions?"

Ysa caught sight Barro's face scrunching up out of the corner of her eye. "Some who arrive at this time of day prefer to wait out the night in that town at this side of the bridge," he said, gesturing. "Weye is its name. Been there forever, as I understand it. But it'll be a snowball's chance in the Deadlands that you find a vacancy at any of the inns. Some of the more impatient types prefer to take their chances at crossing before sundown, but if you decide to do that…"

She raised an eyebrow at him. "Go on."

"Well, let's just say I wouldn't be surprised if you're still crossing the bridge come morning. The guards can't be persuaded to be quick about things when the moons are out and nights are cold, see?"

As if she had any choice in the matter. She'd have to try crossing immediately, no matter what that meant. "There are just so many people here," she said, tracing over the legion of heads until she began feeling horribly nauseous.

"That there are, miss, that there are. You're not in the countryside of little Chorrol anymore. You could spend years in this city, meet a different person every day, and you'd still have hundreds more you haven't. But if you ask me, that's a good thing. City isn't safe like it used to be. People aren't always what they seem. Not since Red Ring back in '75, if you know what I mean."

"Thalmor, then."

Barro nodded. "Don't be surprised if the place is crawling with 'em nowadays. I tell all the people that ride with me to avoid the Justiciars at all costs and be careful to not get too close to that headquarters of theirs in Green Emperor Way if you know what's good for you. People tend to go missing around there, and oftentimes, they aren't heard from again. The Dominion's got Titus Mede's ear these days. His stones, too, if you can believe it."

"I certainly can..." she trailed off, sensing another rant incoming, and taking the opportunity to turn her attention elsewhere. As Ysadette traced over the landscape again – her vision sharpened with magic – she searched for any other discernible way. Nothing she could see, of course, unless she decided to scale the walls. Then, something she didn't see before caught her eye.

A thickening pillar of smoke, rising from the east side of the city, opposite of where they were coming from.

"Barro, do you see that?" she asked, pointing. "That smoke there. Is that normal?"

Barro, his eyes squinted heavily, leaned forward. Mumbling a few curses under his breath as he flopped back, Ysadette assumed she already had her answer. "No, it isn't, miss. Looks like it's coming from the Arena District, but what in Mara's name could be…"

A shadow fell over Barro's face – the knowing sort – that carried an ill-fitting grimness. Not bothering to finish his thought and instead opting for an uncharacteristic silence, he whipped the reins, causing Chunkyhoof to trot. "Bastards just couldn't..." he sputtered. "Ain't worth all this..."

Ysadette twisted around to look at Ulpo, who was only then waking up. He raised his head, smiled obliviously at her for a moment, and returned to sleep. Whispering a thankful prayer to the Divines for giving her the reassurance that the other Ulpo wasn't preparing to burst forth again, she returned her attention to the uneven road ahead. As the cart quickly descended the hill, that sinister cloud hanging over the city and mingling with the afternoon sky, Ysa found her hand returning once again to her necklace.

 _From one disaster,_ she thought, _and in_ _to another._

* * *

 **Aaaaaannnddddd...we're back. Took me long enough, huh? Now that things have been reworked, I think things going forward will pan out a little better. So, welcome back everybody. And Merry Christmas, too, since I doubt I'll have another chapter ready in the next few days.**

 ***jingle-jingle-jingles back into writing dungeon***


End file.
